Blindness
by AngelaStarCat
Summary: Harry Potter is not standing up in his crib when the Killing Curse strikes him; and the damage done by the cursed scar across his face will not be easily dealt with.
1. Colors

**Author's Note: **_This story came about in the two week time period after my initial LASIK surgery went poorly and I could not focus enough to see details either near or far away, but mostly blurry colors and shapes. The first portion which will be posted (the first six chapters) were written using talk-to-text on my cellphone, a method I do not recommend if you have a choice, as the errors are many and often humorous. I will post the second half of the story after it is completed and edited._

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><p><em>Many thanks to <strong>GJMEGA<strong> for his wonderful help prereading and beta'ing this story! _

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><p><span><em><strong>Enjoy, and Happy New Year!<strong>_

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><p><em>Fate.<em>

Prophecy cannot be avoided. To try is to make it happen in unique and unexpected ways. It is knowing the end of the story before you have begun to read, and all that is left to know is how one gets to that set point. Fate and prophecy, spiderweb thin strands of future, mapped out and in patterns or tangled in knots.

That night, a wizard sought to change his future, and made it instead. That night, a rat ran and hid.

That night, two Potters died, and one lived.

But the boy who lived was changed, and his eyes that so resembled the color of the killing curse that should have shredded his soul were wide with the sight of new things.

* * *

><p>Petunia was having a bad week, one filled with anger and resentment.<p>

Her sister, dead. Her_ brat,_ in_ her _house. Just like Lily, to go off and die, and leave her spawn behind. Little word for years, few letters, nothing but spurned invitations and devilish moving pictures of a wedding and an infant.

But at night, in the dark, she allowed herself to grieve, to unleash painful bursts of tears for lost time and opportunities, anger at herself and the world for tearing two sisters apart like a tree split down the middle.

She wanted to hate the boy. She wanted to turn her anger to the child who bore her sisters eyes.

But something was wrong.

It didn't take too long to notice. The boy was silent; compared to her tantrum-throwing son, he was like a statue, staying still in the middle of the room, not exploring, not getting into trouble.

And quiet, hardly a tear to give notice to a soiled nappy, hardly a whimper to betray hunger.

But all of that could be ignored. All of that could be brushed aside in favor of lavishing attention upon her own son, who so desired it with every scream and fat waving fist.

What could not was the innocent way his eyes looked upon her. Never focused in quite the right place, but peering at her with firm determination, as if seeking to understand a puzzle. His head would move; listening to sounds. But always those eyes, bright green with intelligence, never quite looking at her face, but following her form with the questing sway of his black haired head.

In a month's time, she knew, knew with a mother's intuition. Knew after a few easy tests of snapping her fingers to see his head turn; and yet seeing little reaction when waving her hands in front of his very face.

Lily's son was blind, or very near to it.

And every facet of coldness in her body melted away. The wizards would never want a blind boy; how could he possibly learn magic? They wanted perfection, like pretty little perfect Lily, not Petunia.

Harry was _hers_, now. Fate had given her back her sister, and in a way had given her a second chance.

She would not squander it.

* * *

><p>Lily's son was different, though.<p>

In his first year with them, Petunia let herself admit as much. To her husband, in private, she shared her fears and speculations.

Magic still ran in the boy, ran in the way things came to him without his touch, in the way objects moved from his path before he could stumble upon them.

It was alarming, to say the least, to watch her table and chairs moved aside as the toddler slowly walked across the kitchen floor with unsteady legs.

The boy could not possible go to daycare. A simple outing to a park was fraught with danger. She had to keep the boy inside, until he could learn to be more _normal._

The Dursley's became used to making excuses. _Yes, _the boy is blind. _Yes, _he's my sister's orphaned son._ Yes,_ he is feeling a little unwell_. Yes,_ he's a bit... behind his peers_. No, _he can't play, he's under the weather._ Yes, _he's staying inside today.

_Why?_ Well, he's different. He's _blind._

Petunia focused her attention on Lily's son. While her own Dudley was sent to reception, she stayed at home and taught Harry to speak.

She taught him shapes by the feel of his hands. She taught him objects by touch, animals to sounds, colors to objects. She told him the sky was blue; and also that water was blue, and ran his hands through a bowl of tap water.

It was hard. It made her heart hurt, to see his trusting eyes, his unquestioning acceptance of what she told him.

She read books on blind children; she spoke to experts over the phone. Petunia Dursley became a different sort of woman, the kind who spent hours with a child not her own for no other reason than to help him.

And Harry Potter learned.

* * *

><p>Dudley did not always understand.<p>

The other kids at school had brothers and sisters, and they were no different.

But his mother said that Harry wasn't just blind; Harry was_ magic._ The other kids' siblings didn't move things without touching them.

And because Harry was magic and blind, Dudley had to look out for him. It was up to Dudley to protect him, because Harry was special.

Dudley's five year old chest had puffed out with pride when his mother told him that. Dudley was being given an important task. He had to grow strong and be watchful, so he could watch over Harry.

Dudley took his task very seriously. Any inkling of jealousy was quickly squashed with a simple look into his cousin's unseeing green eyes. How could he be jealous? He never had to share his toys, because Harry never wanted them. Harry couldn't _see _them.

Dudley felt bad for Harry, even though the boy was special and magic, because the boy never _could_ play with his toys. Bad enough that he wished he _could _share them, wished his cousin could see if only for an hour, and they could play together.

When he told his mother as much, she cried.

* * *

><p>Vernon was confused.<p>

His wife had told him of her odd sister; but Vernon rather had thought Petunia was a bit touched herself, to believe magic was real.

The moving pictures in the mail hadn't been so odd, a trick really, easy to brush away.

But when the orphan in his house began to move things, well, Vernon Dursley was a practical man. A business man. He knew now there was something out there he couldn't ever understand.

His wife no longer spoke harshly of her sister and _'her kind'_. She was gentle with the boy; and Vernon saw their own son profit from helping take care of little Harry.

He was satisfied with the arrangement. Petunia stayed at home, keeping the house and the children, and he went to work and made money. That there was now two kids instead of one, and one odd one at that, made little difference.

And this magic business wasn't so hard to live with after all.

* * *

><p>Dudley was a large child; his baby fat seemed determined to stay, but his bones were big and muscle hid underneath the fat.<p>

No one messed with Dudley Dursley.

And no one picked on his cousin where Dudley could hear, or they regretted it.

But even with Petunia's vigilant eyes, even with Dudleys clenched fists, the world was not always kind.

Harry's ears heard things far better than they should. He heard the teasing whispers, the taunts. Walking with his cousin, he heard them call him names because he was different, because he didn't go to school, because he was blind.

He was an idiot, a wimp, a waste of space.

Others felt pity for him. He heard them soothe each other that at least their children were not as bad as him; at least their children were whole. He heard other kids whisper how sorry they felt for him, not being able to see and play and have fun, always cooped up inside. How they felt for him; _poor, pitiful Potter._

Harry was not sure which was worse; the cruelty, or the pity. To an eight year old, neither was preferable.

That summer, in an effort to confront both feelings and join his peers at their level, Harry convinced his aunt to allow him to enter school. He had long since learned to read with braille; at a rate that would have startled Petunia, had she had more experience with blind children. But she did not, and could only assume it was normal.

But nothing about Harry was normal, as she would learn when she agreed to her charges pleas.

Because when Harry started school, the teachers who knew what normal was were more than happy to tell her such.

* * *

><p>Harry was aware he was different. His last sight of things that he supposed were truly normal, things that had edges and forms, had been of a man in dark robes killing his mother. Of green light that had risen to destroy him, while red eyes glowed in the darkness.<p>

Green, like fresh grass. Red, like apple skins and roses.

But only like. Harry had no words to describe the true colors, no objects his young mind could grasp upon.

Because he saw _differently_, now. He could not see what other people saw. He saw something new that they could not understand.

When he learned words, he tried to tell his aunt. Tried to speak of the colors he could see, though he did not know their names. Light that swirled and spiraled and moved, always. Light that seemed to flow through things, sometimes with the quickness of life, other times with the slow oozing path of death.

As he grew older, he learned more words, and knew with certainty how odd the things he saw were. He learned to use what he saw to his own benefit.

A chair, wooden. It had light, but it moved so slowly it hardly seemed to move at all. And only in the grains of the wood. The nails that held it together did not move at all, but gleamed like a spark, like the point of a sharp pencil. He could move the air, and the nails, if he let his own light touch it.

But some things had no light, and were like empty spaces in his vision, only seen because they sat like dark shadows.

Plastic. The swings in the playground, dull and void, and he avoided their touch with stubborn insistence. Clothing made with synthetic fibers, like cloaks of darkness swept around his figure. Harry screamed when his aunt put a shirt of such fibers on him, and though she did not understand, she refrained from doing so again.

Harry had been afraid he would disappear if he wore it. Afraid his light would go dark and slow and dim. Afraid he would die, like his mother died.

Harry did not understand night and day anymore. Always the world looked the same, the moving light, the shadows.

When Harry began to learn science, he began to develop his own hypotheses.

Things that grew had life, even when dead. Things that had never lived, things made with science and human hands, did not. Things that came from the earth, natural stone and rock, also bore odd pinpricks of light; synthetic gemstones and mixed concrete were only shadows.

Harry learned the light of wood from the piercing light of metal. He learned the throbbing look of human flesh from the dark shadow of a wall painted with chemicals. He learned his colors all over again, and he learned his objects by look now instead of feel and sound.

It was all different, it was all new. It was all _magic._

Magic that his aunt said he had but could not learn because he was blind.

But Harry didn't think of himself as blind anymore.

He rather thought magic had taken his eyes and given him magic back instead.

* * *

><p>The teachers assumed a home schooled blind child would be behind. They started off the young Potter with the outdated materials left over from the last visually impaired child.<p>

In a day, he answered the simple math and science questions correctly.

The next day they moved up a year, telling themselves the boy had had good tutoring from his aunt. It would be good to put him with his age group, after all.

They were wrong.

In a week, it was confirmed. Despite his blindness, if the odd child even was blind at all, some thought to themselves after watching his uncanny ability to move about a room with the aid of only a simple wooden walking stick, Harry Potter was a _genius._

The Dursleys, at the news, only exchanged glances.

It was not so odd, for a special child with magic, to be special in one more way.

And with the long practice of reacting to the unexpected, the Dursleys began to look for a new school.

* * *

><p>Harry was taken to more doctors. They looked at his eyes and ran tests with cold metal and stinging light. They noticed his pupils did not dilate as they should, that his eyes were oddly focused but certainly unseeing.<p>

_A new kind of blindness,_ some doctors whispered. _Never seen anything quite like it_, others said of the boy who walked and talked like a normal child, whose eyes were so vibrantly green and intelligent.

He could not read numbers on paper. He could not describe pictures, or depict objects. He could not draw or write himself. He could not tell you a color of anything he saw, unless it was a guess or an assumption.

Harry Potter was medically blind. But physically, something odd was at work, on that all could agree. No blind child could avoid objects so well, could know a person was present, could recognize objects physical type if not their color or shape.

Only the Dursleys knew what it was, and they did not allow the curious doctors to run more tests, though they were avid to the point of offering money for the chance to study the phenomenon of the blind child who could see.

_Magic. _

* * *

><p>For two years, Harry Potter attended a special school in London, dropped off by his uncle on the man's way to work.<p>

He excelled with fresh material and new ideas. He made his own experiments, testing the light he saw and cataloging it in his mind.

He could make no notes at first, so he learned to compartmentalize his thoughts. His memory was unparalleled, he found, and Harry knew that the magic that ran inside his own skin was at work.

He learned higher math and found a great skill with languages. He learned to use and type in braille and thus solve equations and eventually write notes that could be printed off with a printer to be read later. He met other blind children and adults, and knew for a certainty that they did not see the lights he saw.

He learned, because learning was all he knew to do. The only thing he did for the simple joy of doing it was music.

He would sit for long hours and listen to it, magic to his ears, a violin play or a piano sing. A woman's voice raised in triumph or agony, a man's in harmony.

Music was the only art he knew, and he loved it.

But every other moment was part of his quest to know what he was.

And at every turn, he knew the answers lay somewhere he would not be allowed to go.

_Magic._ What made him different, what made him special. What let him, away from curious gazes, move objects and change them.

He could make the light of wood into the light of metal. He could make the slow oozing wood of a dead twig quicken to life again and bloom, taking root. He could make the crystalline tones of water change to harsh red sparking fire.

Nothing was so full of light as fire, he found. And the light of fire burned his skin painfully.

And that was how he learned to use his light to heal, to soothe pain and mend a tear that let his light leave his body in rivulets of liquid.

_Blood._ He now knew that some of the light he saw in people was blood, though he had guessed it before.

And so on and on it went, the discoveries, the guesses, the learning. A child stepping into a dark world, one questing foot at a time, unknowing what lay beyond.

But that world would soon come looking for him.

* * *

><p>Petunia watched it happen, time slowly gliding by.<p>

Her sister's son growing up. Lean, a black-haired boy who spent most of his time at school or in his room, reading with his fingers or working magic in displays too marvelous to comprehend. No friends nor a desire to have them, only focused on study and the projects that caught his fancy.

She watched from the doorway one afternoon that summer as he made a stack of wood shavings into beautiful flowers, one by one, each a different color, purple and blue and red.

Then he gave them to her with a sweet smile, and Petunia smiled back though she knew he couldn't see it.

"Did you mean to make them these colors?" She asked after a moment, and Harry shook his head, his voice soft and cultured to the precise words his teachers had instilled in him the last two years.

"No. I can change their physical form, but Dudley tells me the colors are always random. In the case of flowers, the stem is always green, but the petals deviate. Though, from what we've seen, they stay within their natural color scheme."

Petunia blinked, and chose to ignore the large words that sounded so odd coming from a young boy, and instead focus on the much stranger portion of that statement.

"Dudley's been helping you?"

Harry grinned, and the mischievous spark that showed brought her hope that her young nephew might one day turn his focus from his studies to things normal boys his age did.

Getting into trouble, mostly.

"Some. I use his eyes, and he gets the rewards for his girlfriends. They quite enjoy the flowers, I am told."

Petunia sighed, and with a last word of awe for the creations he had given her, left him alone.

It would take three days for the flowers in their vase to turn to twigs again.

And by then, her world, as special and beautiful as it had begun to be, would be tainted with fear.

* * *

><p>Harry Potter had cost them very little in the last nine years. The nice private school he attended on scholarship, and before that Petunia had only spent time with him and little money. He was an easy child, never asking for things, only certain oddities setting him apart. Finding shoes made only of leather had been one of the difficulties, but that had paled compared to some of the trouble Dudley had gotten into over the years.<p>

Perhaps one could squabble over the cost of food and clothing, of the materials Petunia had gotten for him when he was young, or the doctor visits when they hoped glasses or surgery might solve his eyesight.

But Petunia did not count those things, for Harry had brought light into their household with his presence, his bright outlook, his happy innocent delight in the things she had always taken for granted.

So when the letter came, her heart broke. For a day, she carried it in her pocket, and that night she cried, to her husband's confusion.

When another letter arrived the next day, she could no longer hide from the truth.

Nor could she deny the boy she had learned to love the chance to be part of a world that might be able to help him, though she feared the opposite.

And, perhaps there was the hope that the wizards did not know that Harry Potter was as he is, and when learning, would let him come back to her.

With that last thought in mind, Petunia wrote her letter, and sent it by the owl who waited patiently upon her car.

* * *

><p>"Albus."<p>

Minerva's voice was soft at his office door.

Albus looked up, saw her eyes, and sat up straight.

Together, they looked over the letter from Harry Potter's muggle aunt.

And again, he read it as he sat at his desk, the impossibilities it presented, the difficulties, the horrible twist of fate.

The prophecy, which still waited unfulfilled, waiting for a boy to grow up and a dark lord to return.

A boy that might be blind. How could he possibly be their savior?

But he had seen the scar with his own eyes, a jagged lightning bolt that had cut sideways across his face, cutting the skin around his eyes like a macabre blindfold.

Magic could not heal blindness. It could not fix eyesight. There were spells and items aplenty to help the life of such disabled, but there was no cure. The few magical prosthetics available to replace eyes were flawed, and limited only to adults who had reached their magical and physical maturity.

If Harry Potter was blind, he would stay blind for a very long time.

And Albus Dumbledore could not teach a blind child magic.

_Was it possible he misinterpreted the prophecy?_


	2. Blue-Violet Light

McGonagall watched him for three days, not wanting to believe it, unable to face the facts.

She watched Lily and James' precious son walk carefully down a street, cane stretched out in front of him, always escorted by his uncle or cousin to and from the muggle vehicles.

She watched him wait for doors to open for him, watched him coached on what food to be eaten at public restaurants, watched as muggles catered to his disability with the comfort of long familiarity.

He was smart, attending a school with peers twice his age, but his mind could never make up for his lack of sight.

Harry Potter could not wield a wand at a target he could not see. Harry Potter could not read spell tomes or take notes from a professor.

There were no wizarding books in braille. There were no blind wizarding children taught at Hogwarts. What few practicing magicals who were blind were not so from youth, but only lost their sight in their old age or in accidents later in life.

Maybe, with careful tutoring, he could be taught a few limited spells. Maybe he could prepare a pre-cut potion, or work with his hands in herbology. But the magical world was too dangerous for him to ever be alone.

He was Harry Potter. He was famous. The wizarding world would not know what to do with a blind savior.

What minions of the Dark Lord remained would find him easy pickings.

"It's for his own good." Albus Dumbledore said softly, when she relayed her findings. "He can not come to Hogwarts. Perhaps it is best that he simply disappear into the muggle world."

"There will be questions." Minerva said softly, and the venerable Headmaster sighed.

"Let it be known he is receiving private tutoring. Meanwhile, the young Longbottom boy also fits the prophecy. I must have been mistaken all along. We will keep a careful eye on him this term."

And as easily as that, the problem of Harry Potter was pushed aside.

* * *

><p>Petunia felt her heart break when she read the letter.<p>

As much as she would have wished to keep her nephew with her, she had also known how much being denied would crush him.

But she told Harry Potter anyway, that his world would not take him as she had always warned, and he only smiled.

He knew something they did not; magic had him in its grasp whether he was blind or not, and he would learn to use it one way or another.

* * *

><p>Time passed; days, weeks, months. Harry Potter became a name known in muggle scholarly circles in Britain, a rising star, a genius child, the pride of the Her Majesty's Gifted Children Program.<p>

And in the magical world, fate worked its delicate plans.

* * *

><p>"<em>How could you let this happen to my daughter?!" <em>

The muggle man roared in distraught pain, standing over his child's hospital bed.

"Mr. Granger, this accident..." Professor McGonagall began.

"You told me the school was _safe!_" The man interrupted her, swinging one fist.

"Calm down, sir, you might wake her." Madam Pomfrey gently broke in, and with a grimace the man lowered his voice and continued to rant in harsh whispers to his daughter's Head of House.

"We were told this was the best institute for magic. I had my doubts, but you, _you _professor, convinced us. Now, we get a letter saying our daughter is in your kind's hospital? This, _St. Mungos? _Because a troll bashed in her head, broke her bones? And she might never recover fully? My _daughter?!_ Where were _you_, when this troll was roaming_ your_ _school!_"

"Ms. Granger left the Halloween Feast of her own accord…"

"_To go to the bathroom!"_ Mr. Granger burst in, shaking his head. "Can one of your students not visit the facilities without danger?"

"I'm sorry..."

"_No." _He said firmly, and looked down at his pale little girl, her mother's curly brown hair limp around her face. "No more of your apologies. If… _when, _my daughter wakes up, she won't be returning to your school. She had scholarship opportunites to the best schools in Britain. She can learn magic if she still wants to by tutor, safe at home with her mother and me."

Professor McGonagall stuttered and pleaded, but all of her words fell on deaf ears.

Mr. Granger would not let his child out of his sight again for a very long time.

* * *

><p>In January, while her peers at Hogwarts returned for a term that would be fraught with drama, Hermione Granger entered muggle school once more.<p>

It had taken a month for her to wake from the magical coma meant to heal her mind.

Magic could easily mend broken bones and skin; the spirit was another matter, and the mind a mystery never solved.

She could not speak well; and when she did it was slow and slurred, as well as in broken syllables.

For another month her parents doted on her at home as she was visited by a speech therapist, coaching her how to speak again, though written words came as easily to her gifted mind as ever.

And when Hermione grew tired of the constant pandering, tired of her parents worried eyes and pitying gestures, she insisted she was ready to return to school.

And in London, her first day of school, she heard a name mentioned with longing, a name very familiar to her from her magical studies.

What were the chances that the blind darling of her new London school was also the wizarding celebrity?

It wasn't possible, of course. Not at all. The-Boy-Who-Lived wasn't _blind_, he was being trained in secret by aurors and the Ministry.

But Hermione watched him in fascination anyway, too shy to speak in her new halting way to a boy who seemed to know more than even she did, too nervous to offer help to him when he navigated the hallways with careful steps.

And when she sat close to him in the cafeteria, watching his focused face on some paper or another, fingers caressing a page of braille, she found herself becoming fascinated with the boy.

From a _distance_, of course, because the Hermione Granger she was now was not the same girl of four months ago. She did not offer help to her peers, though they would be more receptive to it than the students at Hogwarts ever were; she couldn't speak well enough to give answers in class when a teacher asked. Crowds made her nervous; bathrooms, even of the muggle variety, were nightmarish rooms of pain and darkness.

* * *

><p>Harry saw something different in January.<p>

Blue-violet light, like spiraling electric lightning across a stormy sky. A form, shorter than himself, darting in and out of the corners of his vision.

_Watching him. _Burning brighter than any other person in the London school. Burning with something no one other than himself had.

_Magic._ The bearer of the blue-violet light was magic, somehow.

She or he, Harry could not tell, shadowed his movements. In his mind, he fondly began to call the vision _Violaceus_ for the unique vibrant hue of its magic and life. He found the Latin for the blue shade of purple described it aptly, and imagined it was a girl who was much like himself, damaged in some way, kicked out of the magical world for some fault that made her less than perfect.

Viola shared no classes with him. She passed him in the halls with quick steps, the tread of a nervous personality. She sat within sight of him during the lunch meal, her light questing from her with timid jerks, like a cat testing a puddle of water to see that it was, in fact, wet.

He was not fast enough to catch her. The blind, even those who saw light, found it hard to run.

So he began to think of ways to draw her to him, when he could ask no one her name, could not point her out from a crowd. A blind boy searching through endless color for one single, fascinating hue.

* * *

><p>At Hogwarts, Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley became friends of an awkward sort. Seeing the aftermath of what happened to Hermione Granger changed them; changed all the Gryffindors, but none more than the two boys who reluctantly went searching too late for the girl who had been so hurt by their callous words.<p>

Neville had wanted to go earlier; Ron had not. One felt guilty for not being stronger; the other, for being so weak.

The two knew why the know-it-all had been in the bathroom. Their shame bound them tighter than friendship.

After winter break, they began to find reasons to study together, reasons to help their peers. Following signals nearly too vague to understand, they began to search for some way to find forgiveness in themselves.

Some way to make up for what they had done.

And from the clues they were given they found out about the Philosopher's Stone and where it was hidden. They saved a dragon together. They followed Snape under an invisibility cloak Neville had been given from a mysterious benefactor.

Seamus and Dean were brought into the fold, tagging along with their suspicions, the four Gryffindor boys thinking of themselves as the Saviors of Hogwarts.

And when Dumbledore left, when Professor Snape disappeared, when their Head of House wouldn't listen, they did what they had to do.

They followed the clues left so carefully for them, and went to save the Stone themselves.

Neville defeated the Devil's Snare. Ron caught a key and solved a chess board. Dean and Seamus both worked through the riddle with laborious effort.

And Neville, the only one uninjured from the chess match, marched through the fire with the first explosion of courage he had ever felt in his life.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore was pleased.<p>

His ploy had worked. Mr. Longbottom showed true promise, and had made friends with his peers, good boys all of them, Gryffindor lions through and through.

The Stone was destroyed, and Neville Longbottom thought that he and his friends had saved it from falling into darkness, and that maybe Neville himself was somehow important enough to defeat a dark lord.

Seeds, carefully planted, needing only time to grow strong.

Albus Dumbledore would _make_ the savior his world needed.

* * *

><p>Hermione had three focuses in her life as the months passed and summer approached.<p>

Her muggle studies at school, advanced material that finally challenged her the way she had always wanted.

Her magical studies, assignments by owl, practical evaluation once a week by Mrs. Hiddlesticks, a retired Mistress of Charms and Transfiguration.

And Harry Potter, the smartest boy in the school. Sometimes, she almost thought he was looking for her, his amazing green eyes locking upon her face for a second as she passed, his head turning at odd moments when she approached.

Always, she nervously looked away and fled, unsure why she even bothered.

He couldn't see her, not really. He was blind, everyone said so, and it was easy enough to see for herself in the way he walked, the way he read, the way he needed help picking out his food in the cafeteria.

But Hermione couldn't take the chance.

She much preferred watching from afar and trying to solve the mystery he presented.

* * *

><p>When term broke for the summer, Harry left school with frustration, silent on the entire drive home.<p>

He hadn't even spoken a word to Viola, the light avoiding him at every turn.

Once, he tried to call for her; but what to say?

_Hey, you there, with the pretty lights, girl? Boy? Young, old? _

_Hey, you, stop._

_Let me talk to you._

But it hadn't happened, and Harry found himself strangely reluctant to enlist the help of any of the acquaintances at school. What would they think? How could he possibly explain?

He could only hope the light would still be at school the when term resumed. He hated a puzzle left unsolved.


	3. Scarlet Fire

Harry did not stop practicing his magic, though its limits frustrated him.

He could manipulate his own light only in specific ways, all related to touch or a range of around ten feet.

Farther than that, and he felt like he was stretching out an arm, unable to reach.

His aunt spoke of wands; she also spoke of an alley for his kind, _Diagonal_ or something, reached from a pub she could not see from a certain muggle street.

His aunt had waited in the car with her mother, afraid to enter, when she was young. Later, an older teen and puffed up with bravery, she had let her sister lead her inside and show her the magical world.

Harry saw his aunts light pulse with emotion when speaking of it; and its agitation only increased when Harry insisted he must go there.

He had to get a wand, for experimental purposes of course. And why shouldn't he? Surely just because the school had rebuffed him did not mean he was not allowed a wand.

And with more convincing, his aunt finally agreed, to make him happy.

He rarely asked for much, after all.

* * *

><p>His aunt warned him.<p>

She told him that he was something special in the wizarding world, though they did not know of his condition. He did not understand all of it. That the man, the wizard, who killed his mother had been a criminal of the worst sort, feared by wizarding kind. That Harry had somehow been instrumental in the man's death, and that all of the wizarding world seemed to know his name.

That the scars he had heard whispered about across his face were the sign of a curse, scars that would identify him to every wizard and witch who knew the story.

The letter that had come with him when he was brought to the Dursleys said as much.

His temporary solution was easy. He had no desire to be recognized when making his first foray into the wizarding shopping alley with his aunt. He only wanted a wand, and perhaps a few books his aunt or Dudley could translate aloud for him.

He tied a soft cloth around his eyes, his aunt assuring him that the black material covered all of the pale, jagged marks, and did not look half bad.

Then, with a determined smile, he prepared to enter a place neither he nor his aunt could see.

* * *

><p>She knew the street; when they arrived, Harry could see the magic, the light streaming forth in a wide circle.<p>

He led them both into the light, and when they were inside, his aunt sighed in relief.

At the entrance to the alley, his aunt described a brick wall blocking the way.

Harry, instead, saw a spider web, delicate and precise, with a few key knots that held the design.

He tapped those knots with his light, and the thing transformed into open air. His aunt gasped with amazement, her trembling hand tight in his own.

He smiled.

* * *

><p>That day, Harry confirmed something new, something that changed everything.<p>

Magic was indeed part of the light he saw, bright and strong.

He had made some guesses, from seeing the way he manipulated objects with his own light, from the glimpses of Viola in London. But on his first glance around the Leaky Cauldron, and his first gaze into Diagon Alley, both sights not altered in the least by the synthetic cloth across his eyes, his guess was confirmed.

Magic flowed in thicker streams inside witches and wizards than it did his aunt. Magic lit the streets in details, the stones alive with it, the building so thick with its light that he felt both blinded, and able to see for the first time in his life.

It was too much. And he could not close his eyes, could not look down or away to filter the sight. His mind was awake and taking it in, despite what his physical eyes might wish.

For long minutes, Harry stood, holding his aunt's hand in a tight grip, his walking stick in the other, trying to put some sort of filter on what he saw.

It was like standing in the center of the sun, everything was so alive with color and frantic movement.

And the_ sky!_ The air above him streamed with light, swirling as if in some foreign wind, moving to music he did not know.

Magic was everywhere, in everything.

And Harry Potter could see it all.

He let go of his aunt's hand, and began to walk.

* * *

><p>His aunt told him he had money in the wizarding bank, that his father was rich and that his own kind counted money differently.<p>

The goblin bank, with its orange creatures and sharp metal, fascinated him. Wizarding money, gleaming with golden magic, was heavy in his hands.

Potter's _did_ have money, though his key had been misplaced. It was simple to get a replacement; a drop of blood, and thus life, as proof of who he was.

His aunt did not like the goblins; Harry thought that he probably would not either, if he could see them with her eyes. But their magic knew no ugliness, and gleamed in an echo of the precious riches they guarded.

And with a wizards money, Harry prepared to find himself a wand.

* * *

><p>Along the way, his aunt reading to him the signs of stores they passed, Harry made two stops.<p>

The first was to a clothing store, where all the materials where natural, cotton gleaming with brown light and the many hues of animals, some he did not recognize.

But the boots in the window glowed with orange fire.

_Dragons. _

It made his heart stir with excitement, and though his aunt baulked at the extravagant price, he would not be swayed.

He walked out of that store with firelight around his feet, a orange and yellow glow only he could see, and a cloak around his shoulders that streamed with silver light like the moon.

The second was to the bookstore, where Harry learned that magical kind did not use braille or any writing like it. With his Aunt's help he bought a spare three books, their bindings in leather, their pages alight with magic but not words that he could read.

It was frustrating, and disappointing, and expected. If his kind had taught blind students they would not have turned him away, after all.

The wand shop of Ollivanders glowed like a sun in the alley, so full of light that he faltered upon entering.

The wizard who waited for them gleamed in a rainbow of colors, like what he imagined a kaleidoscope would look like to normal eyes. And each of those colors seemed connected to the bright lights that filled the store, the gleam of woods too numerous to count, the fibers of pulp and the now familiar twang of dragon mixed with new signatures he could only guess at.

The wizard's magic came upon him in a wave, evaluating him more than the tape measure that whirled through the air.

"Mr. Dursley, you say? A bit old for a Hogwarts student... you have a familiar look about you. I dare say you are trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Heh heh..."

The old man chuckled with dry humor, one hand gesturing towards the cloth over Harry's face.

Harry smiled, but remained silent. He heard his Aunt shuffle nervously behind him.

"Not many blind wizards, you know. Justin the Brave, in the stories, was a blind wizard, a knight who slew a griffin... In modern times, only two of my acquaintance. It doesn't happen much, in magical folk. Not _naturally_…"

Again, the old wizard drifted off, and again Harry only nodded.

The man huffed.

"Usually, I can't get customers to shut up about themselves. You're an odd one, and I don't mean those eyes. _Now."_

The man stepped away.

"You have options, Mr. Dursley."

Harry waited, watching with avid eyes as the man's magic seemed to split and swirl in multiple directions at once.

"Normally, children of your age bond and learn with a singular wand, purposefully suited to themselves. But I see you already carry something that may be much more in tune to yourself."

Harry's hand tightened around the walking stick he carried. It was simple, an afterthought given to him years ago when he began to try walking around the community.

There were many things that did not contain a spark of life, black holes in his sight, in the normal world. Concrete in particular was like walking upon darkness, and curbs had caused him to stumble more than once.

The more processed the object, the less life it contained.

Harry shrugged. "It's just a simple walking stick."

"Ah, that it is..." Ollivander drawled. "But every wand I own was also once just a slice of wood. I give it shape, I give it its core, and I make it something new and unique. Length is important, and type, and even the day in which it was made. And every creature who gives a piece of themselves to make a wand magical also gives it personality all its own. A dragon's heartstring for fierceness and pride; a unicorn hair for pride and purity, a phoenix feather for courage and loyalty. My specialties, each and every one, and yet possessing infinite possibilities."

The wizard paused, and his magic was bringing something to him, something long and streaming with the green life of wood newly hewn.

"A wand bonds with its master, and will work better for its bonded than anyone else. The bond grows stronger with every use, with every day spent on your person. But tell me, what do you carry with you always already? That walking stick. For you, I recommend something different."

Harry frowned. "My mother used a wand at Hogwarts. I assumed they would be best."

Ollivander sighed.

"_Unimaginative._ I find structured schools to lack something important. Experimentation, the celebration of being different. Only certain ingredients, only certain pets, only certain clothing. Rigid, confining, _bah!_"

The man coughed and grumbled, then thrust something towards him, and by reflex Harry reached out to grasp it.

"_That,_ my boy, is a wizard's staff. Out of date, yes, most youngsters prefer modern wands, and for good reason. More mobile, more flexibility for the newer flashy spells. Quick and light. A _staff_, now, that takes _courage_ to wield in these days. I carved that from a yew branch only weeks ago."

Harry set his walking stick aside and ran his hands over the wood, feeling the grain, watching the slow swirl of green light.

But there was only green, none of the flavors of magical creatures he had seen in the wands around him.

"Where is its core?" Harry asked, and the man grunted in surprise.

"Ah, yes, I'm surprised you guessed. Most wizards now who use staffs prefer to slide their wands inside. A cheat, a way to have both the usefulness of a wand and the occasional look of a staff to make them seem more important or powerful. But it doesn't work properly as a staff that way. Few these days desire or could even actually wield a true staff, so I seldom make them. This here has not yet been converted."

"Then how would I use it?" Harry asked, and Ollivander sighed.

"You _don't._ We find you a wand that likes you, and I find a branch of its wood and carve you a staff and take the wand's core to place inside it. Perhaps add a stone or two for focus."

"Just like that?" Harry questioned, and Ollivander sniffed.

"Of course _not! _I am a master of the craft. You think I will tell just _anyone_ my secrets?"

Harry shook his head, and the old wizard sighed.

"Or, I can simply give you the wand. Which do you prefer?"

The man seemed resigned. Harry rather through the wizard wanted a challenge more than he wanted to sell a wand.

And a staff seemed infinitely more useful than a wand, when it could double as his walking stick. He could take it with him to school, to the park. Always have the ability to magnify his magic through a focus if needed in an emergency.

And he wasn't going to a magical school, where the staff would be commented upon. He would be in the muggle world, with a new more elaborate cane, but still just a blind boy's _cane._

"The staff." He said, and saw the man's spectrum of light thrum with excitement.

It took a long hour to find a wand that accepted him. Its wood was holly, a pattern Harry recognized from the tree that graced the park near his house. Inside, scarlet light streamed in a feathered design that hinted at fire even as it also gave off a slight melody that warmed his heart.

"Phoenix feather." Ollivander said simply, and his voice was odd, his light dim with some conclusion the man did not like.

But he said no more, and Harry did not ask. He found himself reluctant to give up the thin length of wood, feeling as if something precious had been taken from him.

"A week, perhaps more." Ollivander said simply. "I will owl you the finished product, if you prefer."

His aunt stepped closer.

"Harry, I think that would be best."

He knew she would rather not return to the alley. Her normal hue was dark with uneasiness, out of her element among so many of the people she did not understand.

Harry turned towards her and carefully reached out, fumbling slightly before holding her hand and squeezing softly.

It was harder to see a normal person, he realized. Their light was dimmer now to him, compared to the bright halos of witches and wizards they had passed. Ollivanders hands had been cylinders of streaming light, easy to see in his path.

His aunt's were dull by comparison, hardly recognizable from the rest of her solid shape.

"Alright." Harry looked at the wandmaker. "Though best deliver it at night. We live in a muggle area."

His aunt sighed in relief, and Ollivander clapped his hands together with agreement.

* * *

><p>When the staff came, it was held in the talons of two owls, their forms pale blue and white at his window. Harry accepted the package, wrapped in textured paper that he carefully pulled away.<p>

It glowed with scarlet light, red as the eyes of the monster that slew his mother, phoenix fire, singing under his hands.

He felt it warm at his touch, saw his light flow inside of it and bond, two separate creatures becoming one, recognizing in each other a brother.

He wished he could meet the owner of the feather he now carried. He rather thought they would get along well.

* * *

><p>With the staff, new wonders became possible.<p>

In the privacy of his room, his cousin occasionally sitting in, Harry manipulated his world. He made himself impervious to fire; he made himself levitate. He made Dudley fly; he made his bed disappear.

He healed his cousins broken finger from boxing. He played pranks upon the kids at the park who once whispered behind his back. He made a dead tree live again, and took a branch and made it into coal that burned with red fire. He turned a bird into glass and gave it to his aunt. He fixed the dining room table when a leg broke, and changed the black shadowy vinyl of the kitchen floor to green wood streaming with life.

In a months time, the Dursley home no longer looked the same as he made it his playground, and the spells he cast did not fade.

They stayed strong and bright.

And Harry's desire to learn more only grew stronger along with them.

* * *

><p>When term resumed, Harry searched for Viola with new determination.<p>

A witch or wizard was in his school, another outcast, and their presence now meant more than ever.

Because together with another magical person, one with eyes that could _see_, the magical world would no longer be out of his grasp, limited to the readings of his aunt from magical tomes she did not understand.

And when he finally saw the blue-violet light, he made his move.

* * *

><p>Hermione knew right away what was different, and the only possible conclusion made her mind spin.<p>

The previous term she had made it her mission to learn everything about Harry Potter, both the boy at own school, and what was written about the wizarding celebrity. The more she learned, the more certain she was that _her _Harry Potter was not the Boy-Who-Lived.

The Boy-Who-Lived had defeated hags, and studied with aurors, and had a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. The papers showed a drawing of a tall boy, the scar shooting downward in stylized grandeur, holding a wand aloft in confident hands, dark hair slicked back in perfect lines. He was out of the country somewhere, traveling with tutors, too busy to attend Hogwarts, avoiding the fury of the eager wizarding press, with good reason.

The muggle Harry Potter had a scar, yes; but it was an ugly thing across his eyes, perhaps _vaguely_ lightning shaped, but nothing pretty or grand about it. It branched and cut the skin, pale spidery lines that split his eyebrows and made bad work of his noble face. His hair was black, yes, but it was wild, falling across his face in long strands that he never seemed to notice.

There was nothing that truly linked him to the wizarding world but his name.

Until the first day of the new term, when Hermione saw him walking the halls in what had to be dragonhide boots.

That she noticed them first might have been odd; but she had seen some just like it in the window of Madam Malkin's her first trip to Diagon Alley and been awed by them, knowing they were from the skin of a dragon, a beast she had thought only myth days prior. Their existence had gotten her attention; and their price tag her horror.

Anyone who had seen dragonhide before would never mistake its shape or quality for anything else.

But then she saw the cane in his hand, a different one from the simple wood of the year before. It was made of deep brown wood, polished with a golden sheen. On the top curve gleamed two small red stones like the eyes of a serpent.

And most telling of all were the runes carved with painstaking patience along its surface in a gentle spiral. Wizarding runes, like in her books.

Did he even know they were there? Was his blindness all an act?

She was so caught in her startled confusion that she did not have time to sidestep him as he approached.

His startling green eyes looked at her face, not quite meeting her eyes, but seeming to stare straight at her nonetheless.

He _saw _her.

"_Viola."_ He murmured, and reached out his left hand toward her. "I need to talk to you."

Hermione shifted, uncertain, glancing from his hand to his face.

"I… I'm not w-who you th-th-think I am."

Her stutter embarrassed her to no end, red rushing over her cheeks in a flood.

Harry Potter smiled.

"You're a witch, aren't you?"

And Hermione Granger felt the last of her doubts disappear.

"H-h-how did you k-k-know?" She whispered, and he took another step forward, his hand questing until it brushed her shoulder gently and squeezed.

"That's what I want to talk to you about. _Please?_"

And there was no way she could possibly say no to that.


	4. Emerald Eyes

It was hard for her to believe the story he told, and yet its sheer unbelievability made it plausible.

Had she even read of any blind wizards? She had seen a few with glasses, proof that there was no simple magical cure for less than perfect eyesight. But no one truly _blind. _

And Harry Potter _was _blind in the normal sense of the word.

She wondered if the wizards had even talked to him long enough to realize that he was not normal anything, really.

"Light? C-c-colors only, or, or… _s-s-s-shapes_, too?"

Harry shrugged where he sat in the nearly abandoned library, most of the other students in class.

Like they both should be. _He _might be able to get away with it, butshe was certain _she_ would have a note to bring home to her parents.

_But it was so totally worth it._

"I see colors, in patterns and moving at different rates. No two things look quite the same, and I've learned to recognize a lot of the patterns and colors enough to get by. All people have the same general pattern, though witches and wizards glow brighter. But all have different hues, all over the color spectrum. I saw a woman once, and knew she was pregnant, because she bore another color different than her own inside of her."

"_Really."_ Hermione breathed, finding the thought beyond fascinating.

Harry grinned. "It has its perks, its tricks. But I can't find its true potential. The wizards won't take me into their school, and they have no books I can read. I need _help_, Hermione. I need another of my kind."

Her heart raced, then fell. "B-b-but, I'm not... I'm m-m-muggleborn, and I was only at H-h-hogwarts for two m-m-m-m-months. I hardly know a-an-any-_anything_ about their w-world."

Harry leaned forward, all humor gone. "I don't care for labels, and I don't need a Hogwarts student. I need someone smart and willing to work with me, help me find a way to learn what you can just read in books. Someone to guide me in trips to Diagon Alley, and help me with experimental magic."

Hermione bit her lip. "We're not s-supposed to use m-magic outside of school, you k-know. My p-p-parents had to sign special papers at the M-m-ministry to get them to allow m-me leeway as long as I was e-e-enrolled with a tutor. I'm surprised you haven't been c-c-caught by the Trace."

"The Trace?" He asked, and Hermione nodded, then realized he couldn't see the gesture.

"It's like a b-beacon of some sort, lets them know when we're u-u-using magic without an a-a-_adult_."

He sighed, absently rolling his long staff between his palms where it was propped against his shoulder.

"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't track the accidental magic of children, and seeing as I was never enrolled in a magical school… maybe it wasn't activated." He smiled suddenly. "You see, you are useful already. I had no idea that the wizards might be tracking me."

Hermione flushed, looking down, uncertain what to say, words jumbling in her mind and unable to speak them coherently.

It had been a long time since someone other than her parents had spoken to her in that tone of voice. Someone whose good opinion she couldn't help but crave.

_That troll had knocked more than a few screws loose_, she mused, and ground her teeth together.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked, and Hermione blew out a breath.

"N-n-_nothing_. I'll do it. I'll h-_help._"

He beamed, and though he couldn't see it, Hermione smiled back at him.

* * *

><p>From that day forward, things changed.<p>

She had a friend; and a friend that made the girls who used to snub her begin to crowd around seeking her friendship.

She spurned them all. Harry's friendship was more than enough, more than she could ever hope for, and what he wanted took up all her spare time.

With his funds she bought more books and read, combing through tome after tome for some solution, some spell to meet her need.

And when she found it, her excitement could not wait for the next school day.

And so Hermione Granger met Harry Potter's muggle relatives, who were more surprised at her being their typically antisocial nephew's friend that the fact that she was also, inconceivably, a witch.

* * *

><p>It was a simple spell, though at a fourth year level. It simply read aloud any text that one pointed a wand at, meant to help train young wizards how to properly enunciate their Latin.<p>

But for Harry, it opened a new world.

He simply opened up a page, placed his hand upon it, and spoke the word.

"_Enuntiare."_

And a voice read the entire page.

When it worked the first time, Harry stood, trembling, and reached towards his Viola's light, pulling her close into a hug, his head dropping to her shoulder as he whispered his fervent thanks.

She was stiff as a board; and Harry let her go as swiftly as he had drawn her in.

But he would give her everything he had if she asked for it after that day.

* * *

><p>For Hermione, that year passed like a blur of wondrous research and magic of all kinds.<p>

She shared all her tutors notes and books with Harry, the boy devouring them at a pace that astounded her. Together they practiced magic in her room, her with a wand and precise elegant movements, him with only a rough gesture and a word, one hand on the carved wood of the staff Ollivander had made him.

Harry helped her with her muggle subjects, explaining things in ways she had never thought of; with textures and sounds, mathematical patterns and geometric shapes. They would reserve the labs at school to practice chemistry, Hermione doing the delicate physical work Harry was incapable of, him coaching her in words and gestures.

For her parents, there was never a moment of doubt. The boy who their daughter brought home was the first friend she had ever had; and he was courteous to a fault.

And they didn't need to fear that as a wizard he might draw their girl back into a dangerous world. He was blind, after all, and Hermione had told them that he was not wanted in their world. They didn't understand the wizards thinking, when it was obvious to them the boy could perform magic well enough. But wizards thought in odd ways, and it was none of their business. They were only glad to see Hermione so very happy again.

* * *

><p>But at a school of magic in the mountains of Scotland, there was little peace or happiness to be had.<p>

The school was terrorized by a monster. Ghosts and muggleborns petrified, blood writing on the walls, halls flooded and fear dripped like poison in the hearts of the students.

Ron Weasley's sister disappeared; and later that day, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and his phoenix fought off a basilisk in the Great Hall before the terrorized eyes of a hundred fleeing students.

Neville Longbottom, bearing Gryffindor's Sword, helped distract and slay Slytherin's monster before it could wreak more havoc, three friends at his side, dodging and weaving, the Heros of Hogwarts.

Then the Headmaster struck it down with enveloping fire and a well timed severing curse to its neck.

But five students died from looking into the Basilisk's naked eyes before the phoenix could claw them out.

And one boy was killed in the aftermath, when the great beast fell dead upon him, and later students would say they did not recognize the boy, and in fact, no more mention was made of him.

Only the Headmaster and the Heros knew the real truth, of the boy Tom Riddle who had boasted so strongly of killing Ginny Weasley to make himself whole again.

Lord Voldemort had returned, for a brief time, and once more left spilt blood in his wake.

Ginny Weasley's body and the mythical Chamber of Secrets were never found.

* * *

><p>Harry grew to like Hermione's mind more than even the color of her life. She had ideas, brilliant ones, making leaps of logic that he enjoyed. She read as much as he, getting references to ancient authors and theories that his family could not appreciate.<p>

She wasn't awed by his own knowledge anymore, nor did she treat his blindness like an inconvenience. She was patient, and she was kind.

When she was excited and enthralled in study, her stutter disappeared like the shadows of plastic in his vision, becoming nothing.

And when she finally told him the story of what happened to her, of Halloween and the troll, of the cruelties of young boys, he knew he would never forget the name of Ronald Weasley, who took away the magic and gave only tears instead.

Hermione was brilliant, a shining light that drew him like a moth to open flame, and Harry did not care in the least if he got burned.


	5. Black Deeds

It was counted as good luck for the grieving Weasleys, to have such well-timed fortune.

They used their prize to travel to Egypt, one of the top magical tourist destinations what with so much of the wonder hidden from muggle eyes and thus away from muggle crowds. A perfect way to find a distraction for a family lost and reeling.

But it wasn't good fortune at all; for in a dark gloomy cell, one man howled in fury.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat and watched Harry work.<p>

He leaned back in his chair, the staff held gently in both hands, the rubies glowing faintly with eerie light.

And on the floor, fire bloomed in random shapes and patterns, twisting across the thin wood laid out for the purpose, carving out symbols faster than any metal in human hands could hope to match.

When he was done, a perfect ritualistic pentagram lay carved there, the proper symbols in place as the book had instructed them.

Hermione had taught Harry the symbols on raised disks, running his hand gently over each arch and angle until he knew every single one.

"Now, the beads." Harry reminded her gently, and she sprang to her feet, flushing, to retrieve the small glass marbles she had obtained from a toy store down the street. She put each in a triangle and stepped back, watching as once more Harry began to work his magic, not a finger moving, not a word from his mouth.

The glass became stones of different colors and shapes, ruby, emerald, diamond, opal, citrine, quartz, and jasper. Hermione stepped forward to check each one, making sure they had the right hardness against her scientific scale to be proper gems.

"They're correct." She said softly, feeling a flare of pride at the lack of a stutter.

She was getting better.

"Now, to see if it works." Harry stood, his staff hitting the ground with a solid thunk, the rubies atop it flaring in response; and Hermione saw the object in the center of the pentagram begin to form from empty air.

The stones began to burn; the symbols illuminating to gleaming light. The object began to solidify into a shape.

A moving, lithe shape, a feline whose form flickered with shadows as it paced.

Harry sighed, and the cat became solid, the gems disappeared, and the symbols on the wood collapsed back into nothingness.

The pentagram and any sign of it was gone, all that was left was the overly large cat, its fur bushy, its eyes alight with agitation, its tail whipping to and fro.

Hermione bit her lip. "What do we d-do with it now?"

Harry laughed. "You see him too? How does he look? Normal?"

She eyed the creature. "Normal enough. Black fur, white markings on his paws, kind of like a manicure… um, when girls paint their nails? His tail has three rings of white on it, a bit odd but not abnormal." The cat hissed at her as she stepped towards him. "H-his eyes are green, normal scale, his teeth… ah, look normal. H-h-_he's_ not happy to be here."

Harry grinned towards where she stood. "He appears just like a normal cat to me too, brownish red light, slight alteration on his pattern with an extra spiral over his chest, but that could be typical. We will see if the pentagram conjuration helps him remain solid past the customary twenty-four hours."

"And... if he does?" Hermione asked warily, suddenly unsure of the outcome if their experiment on prolonging semi-sentient life forms past the typical expiration period of a day and night worked.

Harry turned toward her, eyes looking somewhere in the vicinity of her nose.

"Then one of us has a new pet. I say we try increasing sentiency on him next, with the reverse double triangle model and Lipscumb's principle of mental stimulation. Need more marbles, glass works best I think for the transfiguration into gemstones. Or crystal, if that wasn't so expensive. The purer the glass the better, if you can find more that are not colored with chemicals."

Hermione nodded, absently gathering her notepad to jot down her observations of the cat and the process, as well as Harry's notes.

She never would have thought of using a seven sided pentagram on the transfiguration circle instead of the typical five, nor adding citrine and jasper for their properties of stabilizing magic's desire to revert back to the natural form.

If this worked, Harry should write a paper on it. They could get _published_. Maybe create a false name and submit their research to the Transfiguration Board.

But Harry didn't care about any of that. He wanted to create life, for some reason, probably because the magical world said it was not possible.

Anything their books claimed was not possible had become their next problem to solve.

"A challenge, not an impossibility," He would declare, and Hermione would know to purchase yet another notebook for yet another project.

Already they had defeated several key principles of Charm theory, discovered wand movements were basically unnecessary if visualization was done properly, and created several new theories regarding transfiguration, two of which had been tested that very afternoon.

Hermione knelt and called softly to the black and white cat.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty, I'm not going to hurt you, come h-_here_.."

It spat and backed up, spine arched, fur raised. Harry followed its movements with roving eyes, following some pattern she could not see.

"You could just leave it here until it's settled."

"In my r-_room?_" Hermione asked, folding her arms as she stood. "What if it needs to use the box? I d-don't have one."

"Vanish it." Harry shrugged. "Though, I doubt it will. It's never eaten. In fact, that's another curiosity. Will a transfigured cat know how to be a cat? Know what eating is? Or, do my own preconceived ideas of what makes a cat a cat make it know? And, if I was wrong about what a cat should be, would it be wrong as well?" Harry's eyes grew slightly unfocused, head tilting in through. "Or, perhaps the pattern I see is preset with the biological information a cat needs to be a cat. A cat's pattern is like its genetic code, a preset base for cause and effect regarding its environment. With preconceived ideas of danger, hunger, procreation. We trigger danger, because we are larger than itself."

Harry blinked, then turned to her with a smile. "Let's test the theory. Get food, and see if we trigger hunger instead, and make ourselves allies."

Hermione stared at him a moment, then smiled and shook her head. "Alright. Look's like I'm buying some kibble then."

* * *

><p>The cat, newly dubbed Hiss and Spit, or Hiss for short, did not disappear. Nor did it become particularly friendly with anyone other than Mr. Granger, whose lap he would frequent every night as the man relaxed from a long day of dentistry in his easy chair.<p>

Harry eventually became bored with Hiss, whose sentience they were not able to increase despite multiple attempts and recalculations of their reverse triangle diagram theory. It was a cat, and just a cat.

But it acted like a cat, which was what it was meant to be, and Harry wrote the experiment off as a success, while Hermione made laborious notes and submitted them to the Research Committee at the Ministry of Magic under the name Ms. Viola James.

Harry hadn't minded, nor seemed to care at all, his mind turned always to his next experiment, his eyes focused on things she couldn't fathom. But when she received a letter of acknowledgment, with scheduled trials to test her notes, she beamed with pride.

And when a month later she received congratulations on prolonging a transfiguration and a request for an interview in Transfiguration Monthly, Britains primary journal on cutting edge transfiguration theory, she was so excited she jumped on a startled Harry with a hug that sent them both sprawling to the floor.

And laughing, she didn't notice how she talked at all, but only made plans to answer questions by owl.

Viola was a shy, very private witch, after all, and didn't desire to visit the busy Ministry quite yet.

* * *

><p>At Hogwarts, Sirius Black vandalized the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, where the Heroes lay sleeping; later, Ronald Weasley was personally attacked and nearly killed when Sirius Black and the betrayer Remus Lupin infiltrated the school after Christmas break.<p>

Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas saved their friend, but not before the boy was infected with lycanthropy.

They gave odd interviews to the press; talking of rat animagi, the false vilification of Sirius Black, and the innocence of Remus Lupin. But despite their best efforts, Black received the Kiss before interference could arrive, and Lupin followed soon after for being accused of purposely infecting an innocent.

When Longbottom and Weasley went to the press to try to clear Lupin's name, too little and too late, Rita Skeeter published a scathing article in the Daily Prophet against Minister Fudge and the Ministry's high-handed tactics at the precious wizarding school. Dementors on the ground near students, the execution of a Hippogriff in front of young students, and a detailed theory of the Marauders Tragedy, which displayed the events at Godric's Hollow years ago in an entirely new light.

At a press conference, Weasley and Longbottom finally told their story directly to the public, of secret keepers and betrayals, murder and jealousy, Headmaster Dumbledore standing proudly and supportively behind them.

And the wizarding world reacted with fervor, Skeeter egging them on with vitriol and instances both real and imaginary of the Ministry acting out of its bounds and against its own rules.

By the summer, Cornelius Fudge resigned from his office in deep disgrace.

A private funeral was held for Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, both of the wizard's wasted remains laid to rest with phoenix fire.

An invitation was never sent to Black's godson, Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived had not been seen or heard of in years, only rumor and speculation in his place. Some now even questioned his existence; had anyone ever even seen the boy? Knew of anyone who had? And with the Heros of Hogwarts, another savior was not needed anymore.

An old man's work was nearly done.

* * *

><p>Harry and Hermione continued their experiments, giving more research to the Committee, making Viola James a very renowned witch in her fields, branching out from Transfiguration to Charms, then to wards with defensive and offensive spells that could be preset to specific items or locations, an avenue not yet explored in traditional ward schemes.<p>

Speculation began about this mysterious witch, an acknowledged genius in her work. Where did she go to school? Where was she from? Who was funding her work?

_When can we finally meet her?_

Hermione found the articles in the Prophet about her existence amusing; the fact that they were in the back of the paper was no matter, their existence alone was amazing. Harry only rolled his eyes with his usual grin when she read them aloud to him, in her kitchen or his, the friends meeting more often now on their own home ground where their talk of magical theory would not draw notice.

And it was Hermione who saw the articles that graced the front page. She read him those, too, because she recognized the name of Ronald Weasley, and despite her ill favor to the boy, the news of his lycanthropy was horrible for anyone.

And the scandal with Sirius Black, and the current Minister's resignation, was big news.

Hermione read the story to Harry, who fell into a grim silence as it unfolded, the name of his father mentioned more than once. The knowledge that his family had been betrayed was like a punch to his gut, as was the news that an innocent man had died, a friend of his father, after being incarcerated for over a decade for a crime he did not commit.

Peter Pettigrew was still at large, a new massive manhunt in progress under the guidance of the new interim Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour.

Hermione watched Harry's face darken, anger an expression she had never seen before on the usual humorous or determined boy. His fist clenched together, his eyes closed tight.

When she finished reading the latest article, she drew close to him, reaching out to gently touch his hand.

"Harry?" She asked, and his eyes opened, startlingly green, running over her worried face, looking at her own pattern.

She had asked him long ago why he called her Viola, and he told her of the hue of her own light, its startling contrasts, its fascinating pattern. How he had searched for her, unable to find her with his disability, frustrated to know another witch was nearby, so close and yet so far. How he had called her Blue-Violet, _Violaceus _in Latin, shortening it to a nickname said with fondness.

Sometimes, she caught him staring at her, unaware he too was being watched; saw his eyes following what she knew was her magic with simple pleasure, like a critic observing a brilliant painting.

It flustered her, to know he looked at her like that. It awed her, to know it did not matter what she wore, how she looked, that her magic would always be the same to him. That it was only herself, Hermione Granger, that gave off the specific light he found so absorbing.

"It's alright." He said softly, then shook his head with a jerk, looking down. "I don't think about my parents much, and to know all this has happened, and I didn't even know about it… I don't have the right word for it."

"Disorienting?" She questioned softly, falling into a word game they played often during their research. "Disconcerting?"

"Perplexing, maybe?" He rejoined, a small smile curving his lips.

Hermione slumped a little in relief, squeezing his hand again as she spoke. "_Befuddling_, really d-describes it. A complex, c-c-_confounding_ complication."

Harry laughed, then leaned forward into a brief hug before standing, his chin raising in challenge.

"Yes, that's it exactly. A confounding complication I don't need. Unless this Pettigrew comes looking for another Potter to stab in the back, I think it doesn't matter in the least. Come on, lets turn our focus back to more cheerful things. Tesla's theories on electricity and how it applies to magic's electromagnetic effect on muggle electronics? I really think we are on to something with AC versus DC power…"

Hermione dutifully stood, pulling out one of her many notepads, the blue one freshly labeled _Tesla._

With Harry Potter, the show must always go on.


	6. Sapphire Bindings

A prophecy is not the magical force itself; it is, instead, something very different indeed. It is a knot in the web of fate, a fact, a point in time that can not be avoided no matter how events conspire.

So why, then, do mortal men try so very hard to make them come about? Why try so hard to repudiate their fate?

Prophecies would have no power if they could be avoided.

But still, humanity fights against them, and in the end changes very little.

* * *

><p>Harry Potter no longer felt alone, as he had many times when he was younger, lost in a world of illumination and yet darkness. Unable to be part of conversations about simple things like the raggedy look of a neighbors dog, the new paint on a mailbox, the black eye another teen sported from some fight. He could not say whether a girl others fancied was pretty; he could not give an opinion on a peers new car or fashionable clothes.<p>

But with Hermione, magic became their little secret, their studies a game played only between the two of them, one with words and movements only they could understand and no one else.

"You sure picked a cute one." Dudley commented from somewhere near the doorway, and Harry only raised a brow from where he sat facing his desk.

Dudley coughed. "I mean, well, she _is_ pretty, if you're wondering. Her hair's a bit wild, but well, so's yours." He shifted. "I mean, not that wild is_ bad_, it's not. It's kind of… cool. Yeah, cool. All the girls think so. "

"Thanks." Harry replied dryly, and Dudley's weight shifted again before he leaned closer with a whisper.

"You want me to describe her, man? I mean, I guess you know the _logistics,_ but there's some things only us guys can understand, you _know?_ She's growing _up,_ if you get my meaning. In her, ah, well, chest area…."

"Okay, _alright._" Harry broke into the awkward commentary, shaking his head. "I don't want you looking at her chest, thank you very much. Please."

Dudley cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah, well, right. Wouldn't want you checking out my girl either. Don't worry though, I got your back. I'll let you know if I catch any guys eyeing her."

His cousin trundled away from his doorway with an off key whistle, his heavy tread emphasizing that his cousin was large for his age.

Indeed, the Dursley boy's deep brown hue spoke of a physical strength that would surely keep growing. Probably why the boy was now the star of the Smeltings Academy's boxing team.

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair.

He had completely lost his train of thought.

* * *

><p>Harry was fourteen, and as a fourteen year old boy, thinking about girls was not only normal, but expected.<p>

The only problem was Harry couldn't really remember how people were supposed to look. To him, a person was a pattern and a color, some brighter and some duller, some beautiful hues and others frankly nauseous. There was a professor of science whose yellowish brown tint made his stomach roll; and another biology teacher whose nearly pearlescent pale blue pattern he could stare at for hours in devotion.

And it was hard for him to remember that others could see him staring, and that looking at people's patterns often made his eyes roam to places not proper to look at in public.

He took to wearing sunglasses, and spent more time than he ever had before comparing the female lights around him to one another.

But none did he study as often or know as well as Hermione Granger's.

* * *

><p>Hermione thought it a tad odd that Harry began to wear sunglasses, and worried some that he was trying to hide the scars across his face.<p>

Had someone said something to him? Made fun of him perhaps?

The thought boiled her blood.

She tried to delicately bring it up; but Harry only frowned at her mention of his scars.

"I forget they are there, honestly. Why? Has someone mentioned them?"

_Oops._ Her conclusion was false.

"Oh, _no._ No, I, ah… was just thinking, maybe with all the news about that Pettigrew person, you thought m-m-_maybe_, ah… someone might recognize you."

She finished lamely with a physical wince.

Harry's frown grew.

"You know as well as I that the papers published my scar having an entirely different orientation, no doubt a rumor started to protect my identity. Do my scars bother you?"

"_No!'_ Hermione burst out, horrified. "N-n-not at all. I was just _curious,_ that's all."

Harry shrugged, a mite uncomfortably to her eyes.

"Alright."

Hermione sighed, looking down at her precise notes. Her speech impediment was nearly entirely gone; only in rare moments did it show itself, and each and every time it made her self-conscious. Had Harry caught the stutter?

Oh, god, she hoped not.

Hermione tucked a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear and glared down at her writing.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Potter, there really is little more we can teach you here. Have you considered the scholarships available to you? Many fine colleges would be glad to have you."<p>

Harry looked away from the grey spiraling color of his advisor.

"I've looked at them."

He had studied each and every college. Physics, sciences, languages, mathematics. Programs by the dozens, all paid for, all smooth voices over the phone speaking of the glorious campuses he would never see and the many amenities he could not use.

None of them had what he really wanted, and that was seeing Hermione everyday, learning magic and discovering new wonders. And she wouldn't qualify for a transfer for another two years at least.

"Well, Imperial College London has many online classes, if you want to stay at home where you are comfortable."

Harry shrugged, frowning down towards his feet, his own deep emerald light a unique signature apart from the lighter shades of the verdant wooden floor.

"I suppose. I rather thought I might continue my progress in the biology of the human form. It's a difficult subject for me."

It was difficult because he couldn't see muscle and bone apart from flesh. What he could see was blood, the many strands and streams of it, the life of a person, pumping from their heart out of their chest and through their skin, a rough sketch of a man.

And in a cadaver, he saw a dim, still reflection, like an echo left in an empty room. It made him question life after death, how ghosts formed, and the difference between poltergeists and ghosts and if it dwelt in the after images he saw. It was fascinating.

But also uncomfortable for those who did not understand his sight. Why would a blind boy wish to observe medical students he could not see, and personally learn the human body the only way he knew how, by sight and sound and touch?

His advisor shifted in his chair, grey light flickering with a disjointed rhythm.

The man had a slight heart defect, a skip. Harry wondered if he knew; and wondered if he should tell him, and how.

"I… _see._ Harry, let me be frank. You are a brilliant boy, by far the best we have seen in many years in most subjects. But you are at a point where you must begin to think what you want to do with your life, where you want to place your focus. A few months ago I thought you might be settling on computer hardware and electrical work, but you moved on from it abruptly. Now, this interest in anatomy… well, it doesn't seem practical long-term."

He had lost interest because he could not figure out the link between magic and electrical energy without more books from Diagon Alley, and he did not have access to muggle transformers big enough to test his latest theory. He had put that project aside for the moment until Hermione could find more information on limiting the effect of magic using wardstones and ritual circles. She hadn't gotten far with the endeavor, partly because of his sudden interest in spirits and what made them.

He really needed to find a ghost or two to interview.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry's head jerked; he had nearly forgotten the man's presence.

"Yes, sir."

"Son, I've known you for nearly six years now. I know you're dilly-dallying, and I suspect it has something to do with your young lady friend."

To his surprise, Harry felt heat gathering up his neck. His advisor chuckled, and the grey light moved closer as Harry felt the man pat his knee.

The light flickered again, an off-beat.

"I know how it feels, we've all been there. Young love, first crushes. But you can't let it hold you back. If Ms. Granger is a true friend, she wouldn't want it to either. You can still be friends and not attend the same school."

Harry felt his cheeks heat, and clenched his fists in reaction, one leg jumping in anxiety.

"I know. I'm... thinking about it, really. Maybe after this term."

The man sighed; the grey light reclined in the green outline of a chair, the blank space of a plastic composite desk beside them.

He knew it was there because his staff inevitably hit it each time he entered for a visit.

"Let me know if you need help."

The man sounded defeated. His light flickered again.

When Harry stood at the door, about to exist, he turned back with a jerk.

"Mr. Adams, you might want to have an electrocardiogram. Your heart displays symptoms of arrhythmia."

And before the speechless man could form a reply, he quickly strode from the room with sharp raps of his staff upon the stone hallway.

* * *

><p>"You can't be serious, Dumbledore."<p>

Scrimgeour's voice was low and scoffing.

Albus smiled with gentle determination.

"This may be just the thing to enhance our reputation, Minister..."

Minister Scrimgeour broke in with a snide twist of his lips. "I thought you would be quite tired of students dying under your watch…"

The Headmaster did not contain the flash of anger, or the wince, the marred his face. But he covered it with a long suffering sigh.

"The Triwizard Tournament has a noble history. With a few tweaks, an age limit and monitored challenges, it should be quite safe."

Scrimgeour laughed with dark humor. "This is just the kind of scheme my predecessor allowed himself to get talked into. Our country has enough problems without adding in international scandal if your Tournament fails."

The Headmaster straightened in the office chair. "What goes on at Hogwarts should not be linked to the Ministry in any way..."

"_Ha!_ And yet, Cornelius was run out of office for actions that took place there. I am not such a fool." The former Auror straightened papers on his desk with brisk movements. "I have yet to see a good reason for the Ministry to back such an effort."

_So it's to be politics, then._ Albus's face was cold when he spoke.

"I've heard you are trying to bolster the auror force, increase training. The Wizengamot is resistant to such things during times of peace."

Scrimgeour's mouth twitched with a frown. "The sky grows dark, Dumbledore. I see the signs, the increased activity in those elements that hold great resentment for these _peaceful _times. Give them range to move, and they will _always _push for more. I have no desire to see war again in my life."

Dumbledore clasped his hands together in his lap.

"Perhaps I can lend a helping hand, if of course I was not so busy trying to raise support for my own cause."

"...perhaps." Minister Scrimgeour slowly agreed, yellow eyes sharp.

They understood one another quite clearly.

* * *

><p>"Where is he, Wormtail?"<p>

The specter hissed, somewhere between the sound of a squalling infant and a low groan.

The man upon the floor, flea bitten and ragged, mumbled in return.

"_Maste_r, I can't say!_ No one_ has seen him since your… uh, _difficulties_. He's not been at Hogwarts! Rumors I heard said he was traveling, or training."

"Dumbledore." The voice hissed. "He's planning something with him. _He knows! _He knows the boy is my downfall, he's_ hiding_ him. _We must draw him out,_ I want him for my return more than any other. _You _will get him for me, Wormtail. _Promise _me this."

"I p-p-promise, Master." The terrified words came.

"_Do not fail me again."_

* * *

><p>At the World Cup, under the increased security of more than two dozen aurors fresh from the Academy, only one incident was reported, though it made all the major papers in Britain.<p>

Bartemius Crouch Sr. was found dead with the body of his house-elf, both murdered with the Killing Curse, within the very grounds of the Cup's wards.

No suspect had yet been apprehended, and with the murder, Minister Scrimgeour had his support from every angle to increase security in the name of maintaining law and order and the safety of the people. Wards were updated; hit wizard and auror enrollment increasing by leaps and bounds as incentives were created to enter the programs.

Britain had never felt so safe under the reigns of a competent Minister.

And when the Triwizard Tournament was announced, there was only excitement.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore had a plan; a detailed, ornate plan, one that was nearly at its fruition.<p>

The world had to have its savior; had to have the figurehead to battle Tom Riddle, to save the day, to fulfill the prophecy.

The Heros of Hogwarts were nearly there, the only shadow that remained the distant memory of a boy who survived a Killing Curse.

_But that would change._ Dumbledore would put someone before their eyes who rose to every challenge and won, who competed against witches and wizards older than he, the best and brightest from all of Europe's magical schools. Someone brave, someone_ real. _

Only a little slip up need be made.

* * *

><p>When the Goblet spit out two names for Durmstrang, there was uproar in the Great Hall. Threatening words and snide looks were passed between schools, professors standing up at the Head Table, Viktor Krum and Anette Falla looking lost amid the uproar.<p>

But then, there were two names chosen for Beauxbatons, and there was more confusion and anger, especially as one chosen was not within the age limit. The elder Delacour held her younger sibling close in a protective hold, her eyes afire with anger as Madame Maxime screeched in outraged French.

The Great Hall began to settle into whispers and plans, all the student's eyes fixed on whether two would be picked to represent Hogwarts.

Cedric Diggory was met with cheers; Neville Longbottom with rapturous applause, the stylized Hero of Hogwarts standing proudly to take his place beside the Hufflepuff.

The Headmaster looked grim, but also oddly calm as he read the name aloud, his blue eyes twinkling as he took in the way the young Longbottom Heir stood, shoulders straight, chin lifted in courage.

He began to step away from the dias.

And then the Goblet flared again, a slip of paper spiraling forth like a single spark thrown from a fire.

Dumbledore caught the paper on reflex; the hall went silent.

The Goblet of Fire's blue flame faded away into dormancy.

All eyes saw the Headmaster read; all eyes saw him turn deathly pale, true shock present for the first time, his purple pointy hat trembling in reaction.

The paper crumpled in one wrinkled fist.

Then, he spoke aloud a name all knew and none expected to hear.

"_Harry Potter."_

* * *

><p>Harry had been relaxed; reclining against a table, focused on his current project, watching Hermione flicker from one place to another, setting up the parameters, laboriously checking last minute details with low murmurs of description.<p>

She had gotten used to describing what she did; knowing the minute details of her fingers and hands would be missed, knowing that Harry craved to know everything that took place.

Then, he saw the light.

It was coming fast; piercing deep blue fire, spiraling and alive, bursting through the glittering white plaster walls to consume him.

He jumped to full alert, his staff thunking upon the floor with a crash, both fists wrapped tight around it as he faced the threat.

_"Harry?!"_ Hermione spoke behind him, but he had no time to speak. The blue fire overcame him, before he could think to cast a defensive curse, unknowing what he faced, unable to see if the fire was real or magic, physical form or spiritual, its pattern a style familiar and foreign alike, like fire but in a very, very wrong hue.

Harry cried out, shaking, knowing he should be feeling _something_, heat at least, the blue light racing through him, _binding_ him.

"Harry, what's wrong? _H-harry!"_

Hermione was close, her calming hue a comfort he reached out for, his trembling hand grasping her shoulder. She stepped closer, until all he could see in his vision was blue-violet light.

"_Something_, something's_ inside me._ I… did you see anything? Just then?"

Hermione gathered him to her, arms squeezing tight, and Harry leaned into the comfort without any qualm.

"N-no, I didn't, I swear. What did you see?"

Her question, so familiar from their research, made him suck in a calming breath.

He had to be analytical. He had to be calm, rational. He wasn't hurting; it was as if nothing had happened.

"Light, through the left rear wall, which shows no sign of tearing. As you didn't see it, the force was either spiritual or magical. Blue light, a deep hue, cobalt or sapphire on the scale. Its pattern was very similar to fire's standard flickering spirals with bursts of a lower blue shade."

As he spoke, he relaxed, stepping away from where Hermione stood. At a gesture, he saw her reach for the brown stability of a paper notebook.

With a deep breath, Harry continued, looking down at himself. "My own pattern seems unchanged, and I'm displaying no physical symptoms of attack. No heat or cold, only slight constriction in my airways that might be related to the onset of a panic attack." At Hermione's questioning sound, Harry forced a smile. "I'm fine now." He looked down at his hands, leaned over to look at his feet, then glanced over each shoulder. Finally, at a loss, he shook his head. "I don't see anything different. I can't see my face, though, and if whatever it was is related to the mind, the signs would be there. Times like this I wish I could use a mirror."

Though mirrors reflected light, to Harry's vision they only gleamed with the steady argent tone of silver alloy or the more common deep shadows of manmade reflective compounds.

"You don't look different, Harry. I've made notes, but what you've described is nearly impossible to catalogue with what we know. Spellfire from wands displays the caster's magical signature. The pattern you've described is not human. Though, we really should research magical creatures sometime soon. If this could be the work of something you've never seen before…"

_There was a lot he hadn't seen before._

Harry wanted to groan; instead, he made himself sit in the brown outline of a chair, the wood feeling firm under his weight. "Yes, we need to remedy that. Look into menageries near London. I can recognize goblins and werewolfs from visits to Diagon Alley, but the other more sentient beings will be harder to locate and study. Veela and centaurs and the like."

"Well, if it resembles fire, I suppose Veela... but no, they only possess enthrallment properties directly related to sight. This was a spell of some sort, and by your account passed unaltered through a wall. I don't know of a spell that can do that."

Harry slowly shook his head. Hermione drew closer, then knelt on the floor in front of him.

Her face, a rough spherical structure of light, nearly the brightest part of her form, was close to his own.

"It's _alright. _We'll figure this out."

Harry smiled and let his forehead rest against her own, his eyes falling closed though it did nothing to damper the luminescences he saw.

"Yes, we will."

* * *

><p><em>~End of Part One: To Be Continued~<em>

* * *

><p><strong><em> ~*~Review Please!~*~<em>**


	7. Purple Eminence

_**Angela's Note:**__ Here is the beginning of Part Two of Blindness. There will be 4 chapters in this part, which due to the complications while posting the first part will be brought online one at a time every twelve hours until they are all up, (two a day for those who hate math) on the recommendation of technical support (apparently, some issues have occurred with posting too many chapters at one time if they exceed 5k). Many, many thanks to __**GJMEGA**__, who not only beta'd this part of the story, but has also coauthored it with me, helping shape the direction and overall plot. It is very much improved and expanded upon! There will be four parts to this story now instead of only two, so I hope everyone enjoys the expanded content!_

_**GJMEGA's Note:**__ Hi there everyone! First off I'd like to say how grateful I am to Angela for giving me the opportunity to work with her on her various stories. It's been a joy and a privilege. As Angela stated above I am now venturing forth from the role of a mere beta to that of a full coauthor. This is my first foray into the creative process of a story so I hope you all enjoy it. Also, anything from here on out that you don't like is probably my idea, I hope I haven't screwed up the story _too_ much. :)_

* * *

><p>"He can't possibly compete. He wasn't even listed under a school!" Igor Karkaroff complained from where the three Heads sat in Dumbledore's office.<p>

Madame Maxime nodded her head solemnly. "I agree. Is zere no way to let 'im go free?"

Albus ran a hand over his face, feeling ten times his age.

Everything had been so perfect. His goal was within his grasp. Only to learn someone else had been tampering with the Goblet as well, and the one boy he most did not want to see had been placed right under his very nose. The one boy who could unravel all of his plans to place Neville Longbottom as the new savior.

Or, perhaps, the situation could be salvaged. Surely no one would possibly expect, once they saw the boy, for Harry Potter to ever be capable of saving _anyone? _

Albus spoke up, his voice solemn.

"The Goblet is binding. Harry Potter must compete, or risk breaking the contract and paying the price."

"Then who does he compete _for? _Just because he is a British citizen doesn't mean he should be competing for Hogwarts." Igor said haughtily, and Albus carefully arranged his face into serious lines.

"I propose he competes for himself, perhaps with a partner chosen by us. There is a reason Mr. Potter has not been enrolled at my school, a very serious one I'm afraid the public has not been made aware of yet. He would not be an asset to your school's team."

The witch and wizard exchanged puzzled glances.

Then, Albus Dumbledore explained the ramifications of the Killing Curse, and their confusion turned to pity.

Then, dismay.

* * *

><p>The sound of the doorbell ringing woke Harry from a deep sleep.<p>

Immediately, light dawned around him like an explosion of the sun, his consciousness filtering through the information with long practice. His grey walls, his green wooden floors, the bed he lay upon, the brown cotton linens. Streams of light, of life both present and faded.

He rolled over with a sigh, burrowing into his blankets. It was Saturday; Hermione wasn't to come over until after lunch, and his aunt hadn't even called up for breakfast yet.

Had Dudley gotten caught with illegals again? The last time the police had come to their very door with the allegations and Dudley had been grounded for the rest of the year.

Harry rather thought the boy had given up such things in favor of his newest girlfriend, a posh girl from rich parents who wouldn't take kindly to even a whiff of illegal activity around their daughter.

"Harry?" His aunt's voice at the door woke him again from where he had begun to drift asleep. "You have… visitors."

Her voice trembled; Harry was instantly alert.

The incident from the night before still bothered him. Had it been magic after all? Had the Ministry noticed?

But why, then, come to his house and not Hermione's where the blue fire had caught him?

Frowning, Harry quickly dressed, brown natural fibers combined with the fiery orange dragonhide boots. With his staff in hand, he descended the steps.

He saw them from the hallway, through the flickering shadows of the living room's plaster.

Two magical people, one a virtual sunburst of pale blue magic with flickers of scarlet fire within its pattern, an odd mix he hadn't yet seen. It didn't resemble pregnancy, but definitely signaled a foreign influence of some sort.

The other's magic was a light brown, a human pattern with odd markings across it that looked feline.

_An animagus? _The thought was intriguing enough that Harry rounded the corner, coming face to face with the visitors.

His aunt called to him with a nervous lilt.

"Harry, this is Headmaster Dumbledore, from Hogwarts. And his, ah, assistant, Professor McGonagall."

"Deputy." A womans voice corrected calmly, the owner of the mixed pattern.

"Hogwarts?" Harry questioned softly, stepped closer and then sitting in his own chair, a leather construction that he had learned years ago was the most visible to his sight.

"Yes, Mr. Potter." The pale blue light said. "I am Albus Dumbledore. I, and professor McGonagall, taught your parents in school."

Harry nodded, uncertain why they were there. They were years too late for Harry to enroll.

The Headmaster cleared his throat.

"My boy, there has been a… _misunderstanding_, at the school. We are having a Tournament, you see, between the magical schools of Europe… your aunt has told you of your heritage, surely?"

Harry heard restless movement from the doorway; his aunt was uncomfortable.

"Yes, of course."

The older man sighed in relief.

"Yes, we rather hoped she had. We were greatly pained when we learned of your… _difficulties_, by owl. And what that meant for your education."

Why were they apologizing_ now?_ It was years too late, and the sting of rejection had long since faded in his easy ability to learn on his own terms. He didn't need a _school_ to learn magic, and based on the level of Hermione's tutored material, he was already quite proficient in many subjects.

"I understand." Harry said simply, and he did. It was hard for people to face others with disabilities, and the wizards in particular were lacking.

Still, it might have felt better if they had at least _tried_, or even spoke to him about the problems he might face. Instead they had written him off without even a personal visit.

_Perhaps he did still bear some bad feelings after all._

McGonagall spoke, her voice gentle.

"This is very hard for us to admit, but there has been a mistake. The Goblet of Fire, the artifact meant to choose the Champions of the Tournament, failed spectacularly. Not only did it pick _two_ Champions per school, but it also... picked a Champion not of _any_ school. We suspect deliberate tampering…"

Harry lost her voice in sudden revelation. The Goblet of Fire. _Fire! _A magical artifact. An artifact that makes _choices_…

"_Blue_ fire?" Harry questioned, cutting off the witch in her rehearsed spiel. He heard her startled breath.

"Excuse me?"

"This Goblet, was its fire blue?" Harry asked simply.

"I... yes, it was. As I was saying, the Goblet…"

"Picked me." Harry finished, leaning his staff against his legs as his grip tightened upon it.

It explained everything he had seen, at least.

"That's right." Headmaster Dumbledore said. "And the Goblet's contract is binding. This means you will need to be present at each task, though we have determined it will not be necessary for you to actually compete. If you forfeit each challenge, that should still fill the requirements. We are more than happy to provide rooms for you to stay in during each challenge, and open invitations to the planned festivities."

Harry felt excitement begin to thrum in his blood. The complication of the tournament seemed nil if he could merely forfeit; what made his heart race was the chance to enter the magical school Hermione had described in detail, perhaps to peruse the grand library itself.

_And ghosts!_ Hermione said there were _ghosts._ Perhaps he could finally make a correlation in his theory of spiritual life forces and the method of death.

But he couldn't possibly go alone.

Harry sat up straighter in his chair. "I will go, but I will need certain concessions."

He had learned long ago that even if one did not possess bargaining power, to act like one did often still got the desired results.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"And… these are?" The Headmaster finally questioned.

Harry tapped his fingers in thought, making a mental list. Then he smiled brightly.

"I would like to stay for a few months, at the least, and use of the library, including its restricted section. Also, I would like my friend to come with me. We can continue our own studies by owl as easily there as here."

The witch sucked in a startled breath; the Headmaster sighed after another long pause.

"Mr. Potter, I'm afraid muggles can not easily enter the premises without great difficulty. Of course, if you wish to experience Hogwarts for a prolonged period of time you are more than welcome. But as for the library, wizards do not use braille…"

Harry cut the wizard off before he could continue with more nonsense. Honestly, did they think he was an idiot?

"No, no no." Harry waved his hand. "My friend is a witch, of course, Hermione Granger. She formerly attended your school; and I have a spell to read aloud the books I want."

Harry smiled.

"Do we have a deal?"

Nearly in sync, Harry saw their lights pulse in extreme agitation, almost a mimic of the effects of the heart defect his advisors ECG had found.

_Where they really that surprised?_

* * *

><p>She hadn't seen Mr. Potter since he was ten, and then at a distance.<p>

Minerva had been picturing a timid, quiet boy. She thought perhaps he might wear dark shades now; blind people always did that she had seen.

She had hoped his aunt informed him of magic at least, if not details a muggle could not be expected to know. She had expected him to react with confusion, then maybe even fear or anger.

She did not know what to do with what they got instead.

The boy's green eyes were locked on them in such a way that his blindness seemed a farce. He was tall and lean like his father had been, his black hair a wild mess. He carried a walking stick with symbols that were suspiciously familiar upon it, and his boots were eerily similar to dragonhide.

The clues were stacking up, higher and higher. But it was impossible. It _had_ to be.

And then the boy spoke Ms. Granger's name with fond familiarity, and mentioned using a spell with the ease of a person who had done so many times before.

She felt her breath catch in her throat; saw Albus stiffen in pure shock.

She wet her lips and asked the only answer they could possibly give.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Potter. You are both more than welcome at Hogwarts."

* * *

><p>The Headmaster and his Deputy were not simply content to agree; they asked questions.<p>

Practically an armada of them.

Harry wasn't much inclined to simply give away information that took him years to collect, but he did give them enough facts to satisfy and hopefully send them on their way.

_He met Ms. Granger at muggle school. Yes, he and Ms. Granger both received tutoring by owl. Yes, he had learned spells. Yes, he used a staff, from Diagon Alley, and further questions about it could be directed to Ollivander. _

_Yes, he was blind._

_Yes, he could still see._

"Or at least, see some things." Harry clarified, and watched their patterns fidget in startled surprise.

"What kind of things?" The Headmaster asked tentatively, and Harry sighed.

"Colors and patterns. I've learned to get by with what I have, and it has its advantages and disadvantages. It appears to be some form of mage sight that a few of my books hint at, only without having normal sight along with it. I see some mixture of life or magic as distinct patterns, with definable characteristics like color, movement, even brightness."

The two across from him were silent for a long moment. Finally, the Headmaster cleared his throat.

"Could you give us an example? So we can better understand."

Harry slowly nodded, glancing around the muggle room. There was nothing truly spectacular in it; furniture, all natural fabrics and components to suit his vision. The floor wood, the walls painted.

Really, the only proof that would work well here was in the people in front of him.

Harry smiled and fixed his gaze on the witch.

"Professor McGonagall. You have a much brighter pattern, which I have hypothesized based on my own and Hermione's auras to be a sign of magical ability. Your pattern is human, though it bears a feline underlay to it that suggest either an animagus ability or some magical heritage I am not familiar with."

He saw the witch's color pulse in agitation; but the Headmaster was as silent and still as stone.

"Your color is a lighter shade of brown, but I have not yet come to any solid conclusions of what hues might mean in sentient people. It could suggest abilities, which in your case would be some sort of affinity with plants or animals. Or it could suggest your nature, which would be hard to categorize with brown hues as they tend to be associated with beings that are both calm and energetic at turns."

Harry finished with a last glance over her form, focusing mostly on the fascinating markings of what looked similar to a tabby cat.

McGonagall cleared her throat.

"That is… most amazing, Mr. Potter. If we had known… well. This bears more discussion at a later time."

They both stood. Harry slowly came to his feet as well, staff at his side.

The Headmaster spoke. "We look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts very soon."

Harry smiled brightly.

"I can't wait."

* * *

><p>Hermione was not happy. In fact, she was furious on his behalf.<p>

She paced, she ranted, she waved her hands about like a banshee. She talked of litigation, of suing the school or even the Ministry who condoned the use of the Goblet.

In the kitchen, Harry stood near Mr. Granger, whose life force thrummed like a coming thunderstorm, agitated with brewing anger.

But they weren't mad at_ him_. And Hermione hadn't even given her parents a chance to forbid her going with her friend.

"As if I would let Harry go there _alone!_ Who _knows_ when the next t-t-t-_troll _might come along, or a blasted dragon even! This is _ridiculous!_ How can they possibly f-force you to compete?"

At that, Harry gently stepped into the conversation.

"They said I can forfeit each challenge, I only have to be present."

Hermione's teeth clicked together and Harry could swear she growled.

"And embarrass yourself in front of the entire _world?_ What kind of nonsense is that? Just because you're _blind!?_ You're twice the wizard any of those dunderheads at Hogwarts are! _I'll_ help you. We'll find a way to knock their s-s-socks off!"

Harry sucked in a breath, reluctance spiraling through him.

"Hermione…"

"Don't _Hermione_ me, Harry Potter! I know you, you have grand ideas of research and spell casting and the like, not even thinking of the dangers. _Well I know._ And if you let them all think you're weak, they will take advantage of you left and right. _I won't s-s-stand f-f-for it."_

And with a last harumph, the girl stomped from the room.

Harry let out the breath he had been holding, looking down at the dull, nearly lifeless green floor under his feet, its still wooden pattern a hint of its advanced age.

"Harry."

Hermione's dad's voice was soft. Harry jerked his head up; he had quite forgotten the man was there.

"Yes, sir?"

The muggle sighed. "I know I can't stop her from going with you, but… she's my daughter. What happened at that school nearly killed her, and it _did _change her. I don't want that to happen again."

Harry straightened.

"She's my best friend. I don't have any plans of being in danger, and definitely not bringing her into it."

The man laughed sourly.

"I don't think you will. It's her I'm worried about. She can't keep her nose out of things that aren't any of her business."

Harry grinned. "Curious as a cat."

Mr. Granger sighed. "Just like you. Two peas in a pod. Get on with you now, she'll be over tomorrow with her things."

* * *

><p>Later, when the young boy left and their daughter was safely tucked in bed, Mr. Granger held his wife as she trembled.<p>

"I don't think I'm ready. _I'm not ready! _For her to go back there again_… oh, honey, _are we doing the right _thing?_"

He only held her tighter, as his wife answered her own question.

"But of course, we have to let her go. She's so much stronger, now, than before. She knows fancy spells and is prepared. _And she'll have Harry. _She'd never forgive us if we made her stay when her only friend was forced to go. I'm not even sure we could force her if we tried."

He tucked his face into her shoulder, and sighed.

"I'm worried, too."

He said softly, and felt her tears fall on his skin.

* * *

><p>The news that Harry Potter was coming to Hogwarts ran like fire through the school. The Champions were nearly forgotten in the fervor of finally seeing the mysterious Boy-who-Lived.<p>

"_I bet he's tall." "I bet he's loads better at spells than us." "I bet he's ugly, that's why he's been hiding so long." "I heard he's been training with aurors." "I heard he's got red hair like his mudblood mum." "I can't wait to see his scar!"_

The comments went on and on, not only by the Hogwarts students but among the foreign guests as well.

Headmaster Dumbledore had been prepared to make a statement to end the speculation. Announce Potter's blindness and request caution around him.

But now, after seeing the boy, everything had changed. He had planned to set Neville up as a strong wizard, one to draw out the Dark Lord and be marked as the prophecy stated. But Harry Potter was marked already, the scar he had borne as a child still slashed across his face in spidery white lines like jagged horizontal lighting bolts.

And the power that the prophecy spoke of could so easily be the unique sight that Harry possessed.

The way his eyes had looked at them, as if he could _see _them. And yet not making eye contact even once. Seeing something underneath their skin, like he was peering into the very soul of who they were.

He had hoped for a boy who would be obviously _less;_ disabled and weak. Not a threat to either Longbottoms rising stardom or the Dark Lord who might be actively trying to kill him.

Instead, he was beginning to think he had been wrong all along. Harry Potter _was _the one; and _he_ had left him alone in the muggle world, untried, unsupervised,_ untaught._

He had to learn what Harry Potter knew; had to prepare him for what was to come, if the boy would allow it.

And if the worst was true, Neville would still be there, waiting to take his place as savior and do what had to be done.

* * *

><p>As reluctant as Hermione was, Harry was excited for his first sight of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.<p>

They arrived via portkey, the wizarding teleportation device that seemed designed to cause as much discomfort as possible.

For Harry, who saw the spinning, revolting magic involved, the effect was greatly magnified. When they landed, only the sight of the school kept him on his feet.

Overhead, a wide dome of light spread across the sky, massive wards like those at Diagon Alley, only older, ancient even, so deeply entrenched that they seemed carved into the very air.

And the castle was a living, breathing thing. Its still stone light gleaming in dark shades of purple, a color Hermione called _eminence_ when Harry described it to her in a soft whisper unheard by their escort.

Around them, green and brown trees and plants sprouted, the darker shades of black and violet denoting bare earth and rocks. As Harry drew closer to the castle, he felt like he was watching some giant creature, sleeping a deep slumber, afraid if he stepped too loudly he might wake it.

Hogwarts' pattern moved, sluggish perhaps, but it was alive. Every eminent light that made up its stones spoke of life, of magic. Harry had not known wizards were capable of such feats; making a building of rocks live. Perhaps it had not been intended at all; perhaps it was simply a aftereffect of centuries of magic, of young life growing old in its walls, so many thoughts and feelings and patterns sheltered in its belly that it began to think and feel for itself.

But like a giant, it moved slowly, and its thoughts were things that Harry doubted he could ever understand.

Suddenly, Harry wasn't interested in ghosts anymore. He only wanted to sit and stare at the walls of Hogwarts and try to understand her.

Hermione took his hand, a gesture meant to comfort her as much as him, where he had stopped outside the walls; looking up at the rising towers in awe.

Professor McGonagall flickered and fidgeted, but said nothing.

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, and smiled, bathing in the light of Hogwarts Castle, feeling like a small, insignificant child next to her size and power.

* * *

><p>Professor McGonagall took the two children to their rooms, unsettled.<p>

Ms. Granger had not guided Mr. Potter through the winding pathways. The boy had not even appeared to use his walking stick, _his staff_, as a means of sight.

He had strode behind her, face turning about, eyes eager as they locked upon things he should not be able to see, whispering to Ms. Granger of things she could not fathom. He had stepped around suits of armor before she could warn him, navigated the stairways, and at the portrait to their rooms had reached out a hand and ran it reverently along the canvas.

The woman inside, oddly enough, had not seemed to mind the touch. Portraits normally took offense at such treatment.

And when McGonagall left the two, in rooms she had baulked at, _placing two children of the opposite sex in the same quarters, even if the rooms were separated, was just asking for trouble_, she had went straight to the Headmaster.

"It's _true._ After we left the other day, I had my doubts, thinking maybe he had heard of me somehow. That it was all an elaborate prank like the kind his father would get up to. _But_, Albus..."

Minerva paused, and looked to the side, lost in thought.

"_He can see._ Maybe not as well as us, but the way he walks… he's not helpless. And that staff of his, the way he carries it is just like in my great grandfather's portrait. Like a wizard trained to its use. He's not telling us everything. I can guarantee he knows far more than simple, basic spells."

The Headmaster steepled his hands together, blue eyes tired.

"Then we must earn his trust if we ever want to know what he is capable of."

* * *

><p>Harry met his first house-elves that very night, creatures of fluorescent yellows that bowed and flickered and never seemed to stand still. Meals were to be delivered directly to their rooms, a courtesy that Hermione took as an insult.<p>

"They don't even think you can eat with them?" She demanded hotly, flinging herself into dark brown leather and its lighter cloth pillows. "You don't have a _d-disease!_"

"They think they are helping." Harry said gently, and began his walk about the living room of their quarters, carefully inspecting each inch for obstacles he might not be able to see.

But to his delight, there was little point. Everything seemed brimming with magic, no dark shadows to be seen, all natural materials and spells that nearly made him feel normal, able to move without the hesitation of encountering some moved table or cluttered floor.

"Well, I say we should eat breakfast in the Great Hall." Hermione sniffed, and Harry continued his walk, eyes roving.

"As long as we tour the school after. I've already began to think of a world of possibilities. _Hogwarts!_ You never told me how _alive_ she is. Like some great beast whose heart is thumping around us. The stones pulse, perhaps a quarter the speed of a normal heartbeat, and to a rhythm I haven't figured out yet. The house-elves are tied to it, the statues, the portraits... they all bear her mark. I hope you brought extra notebooks."

Hermione didn't grumble or sigh; she was a researcher at heart, and at the prospect of some new knowledge did exactly what he hoped.

She sat up, all insult forgotten.

"_Alive? _Connected?"

And Harry settled down into a chair to explain what he had seen.

* * *

><p>No one was expecting to see Harry Potter in the Great Hall. There was no big announcement; indeed, many did not even know the boy was yet in the castle at all.<p>

And, of course, breakfast at Hogwarts was a casual affair that not all preferred to attend, instead settling for the extra hour of sleep. And those that did had bleary eyes and saw only what they expected to see.

Hermione did not take them to her former House's table. She wasn't there as a student; and she had absolutely no desire to encounter her former housemates. Instead, she thought it much more prudent to settle for the Hufflepuff table at the far side of the hall, where less notice would come to them.

Harry followed her, black muggle sunglasses over his eyes, head swinging side to side as he took in the magic that flowed through the very air. He did not need Hermione to tell him where the tables where; the stamp of yellow house elf was upon them like paint. The green chairs glowed with repairing and cleaning spells too numerous to count.

When they sat, the students next to them only spared curious looks for the boy and girl dressed in plain black robes, the quality few would recognize at a glance. They did not recognize them; but it was not unheard of for students of another house to visit each others tables at breakfast. Those younger thought perhaps they were older students; those older assumed they were from a younger year in some other House they had not met before.

Subsequently, it was not until Harry had finished eating that their presence was noted.

Professor McGonagall, glancing across the Hall, caught her gaze on the very familiar forms rising to their feet at the Hufflepuff table. The Headmaster caught her stare and followed it; Professor Flitwick, who had been talking to the Headmaster, frowned and turned.

And all the professors at the head table suddenly were looking in one single direction, most with curiosity at seeing the famous boy who they had only just learned was, in some sort of odd way, visually impaired.

And as fate would have it, it was then that the pranksters at the Gryffindor table worked their mischief.

With one Champion in Gryffindor and the other in Hufflepuff, a spirit of camaraderie had bloomed between the two Houses. But also a friendly rivalry, with mostly well meant jinxes cast back and forth. Ones to change hair color; others to switch House badges on robes, or scramble ones spoken words. Things that looked dramatic and faded fast, the best kind of prank.

The Weasley twins had planned their event for the end of the meal time; the two boys, though more quiet after the death of their sister, had not lost their desire to cause trouble, though it now held a darker edge. That morning, their victims were Hufflepuff table; a charm to turn black robes golden. They had recruited several other Gryffindors for the task, the spell easy to cast, a child's trick. It was supposed to cause laughter; a goal the boys sought far more fervently than any other.

The first volley would target the right side of the table; the second, the left, and the third all who remained. It was expected that the professors would only punish them with a simple detention, and it would be worth it to cause some havoc and see a fourth of the school walk about with golden robes for the rest of the day. In fact, the Gryffindors were planning to change their own robes immediately after to join in.

To Harry, who had been studying the ceiling as Hermione gathered her bag, the spells rose like a rosy haze to fall upon the other side of the table.

He did not understand; he only saw the magic cast and find its target, then the brown fibers of the students clothing suffuse with magical hues, the pattern remaining unchanged.

Hermione gasped; surprised, her wand rising to her palm. Harry's hand tightened around his staff. He heard startled shouts; but no fear or pain.

A second volley of spells, and Harry stepped in front of Hermione's frozen form, his staff held loosely now, the basic defensive spell coming automatically to his lips, the first time he needed to cast it for anything other than research purposes.

"_Protego." _

His word was lost among the shouts of the Hufflepuffs; the charm that should have hit them fell aside, its magic confused and lost. Harry watched it splatter upon the wall, soaking into the stone in fascination. Hermione grumbled behind him.

"Just some ridiculous prank, Harry. It's over now. I think we're the only ones they missed, maybe cause we're standing. Let's hurry up and go."

Harry let his spell fall, smiling with a shake of his head. He began to turn, prepared to follow her from the Hall.

He saw magic gather and rise, and heard the Headmaster speak.

"_Cease this right now!"_

But the words came too late. The spells came again, and this time it was not the split colors that targeted the table at large, spiraling to take multiple targets.

They were focused solely on Harry and Hermione, and even with her previous claim that it was a prank Harry would not tolerate letting the foreign magic touch his color and pattern in any way, even if only on his clothing.

The seconds before it hit, his mind flared through rapid calculations. The spells came from multiple directions, too varied to be prevented with a simple protection spell meant to be used as a shield from only one direction from one spell.

The rosy magic was not strong, but it had been cast from multiple wands. It would overcome _Protego._ He needed more, and he knew how to get it.

Harry thumped his staff upon the ground, knowing he had no time to speak the words, and let his emerald magic wash from his hands into the scarlet staff he held, flaring about them in the golden dome of_ Protego Maxima. _

Rose met gold and flared around it, passing harmlessly to sink into the stone behind him. Hermione sucked in a breath and then groaned aloud. Harry felt eyes upon him like a physical tingling in his skin.

He dropped the spell, locking his gaze upon the yellow table all the spells had originated from.

"Mr. and Mr. Weasley!" Professor McGonagall screeched, her brown magic stomping towards the table, and Harry saw the myriad patterns of the Gryffindor students flicker and squirm in their seats.

"_Who is he?" "Is that..." "Did you see that spell?" "I didn't hear him say a word!" "Could it be him?" _

The students began to all speak at once, McGonagall's shout breaking the silence. Hermione groaned again, and Harry felt her hand on his elbow.

"Come on, let's go before she starts yelling. This is so _embarrassing_…"

She began to drag him away, and Harry turned with her.

"_That's that girl, the one who nearly got squashed by the troll!" _A single sentence amid all the others caught his attention, and his head turned, seeing a lavender pattern wilt as his face turned towards her.

Then they left the hall behind.

* * *

><p>The Headmaster gave a stern lecture to the entire hall once Mr. Potter left it; and that included a very disappointed word about the kind of introduction they had given to their new guests.<p>

At the news that Mr. Potter was indeed in the castle, and not only that but had cast a powerful spell in front of their very eyes, the students excitement could not be contained, even with the detentions given to half the male Gryffindor students.

And immediately upon their release, students left in droves to seek out Harry Potter with new, informed eyes, while the Headmaster and his professors reconsidered again just how helpless Harry Potter was.

* * *

><p>Albus, Severus, and Minerva met in the Headmaster's office.<p>

The professors had all been told to keep quiet about Mr. Potter's potential blindness. It wouldn't do at this stage to let the weakness be known; if indeed it was a weakness at all.

They planned to speak again to Ollivander about the man giving an unregistered child a staff of all things, something much more powerful than the standard wand, if unwieldy with its size. They planned ways to talk with Mr. Potter and learn just how much he knew of the wizarding world and magical spells.

They planned to find out just how much and how well Mr. Potter could see; and if it was well enough to compete in the Tournament in truth. And if he did, who might be willing to partner with him.

Professor Snape preferred someone from his own house; Professor McGonagall thought Ravenclaw should be given a chance.

Albus told them either decision would have to be agreed upon with the other Headmaster and Headmistress, as well as Mr. Potter himself.

And when Severus and Minerva finally left on their errands and to teach their classes Albus Dumbledore sat in his chair and contemplated past mistakes and how to fix them.

* * *

><p>Harry and Hermione managed to avoid the students that first day mostly because they were in places they were not expected to be; but also with a great deal of luck.<p>

Once they saw the students responses to Harry's presence, the questions both rude or simply awestruck, any future meals in the Great Hall were discontinued, and visits to the library were undertaken only late at night or early in the morning.

Harry hardly noticed the students. He saw their colors and patterns; but both were easily ignored with the grandeur that was Hogwarts surrounding them. He heard their questions; but he ignored them as ignorant and uninformed.

Hermione found it much harder to do both. She saw the eyes and heard every piece of speculation. She interpreted the looks given to them, some fervent with hero-worship, others dark, and very many just curious. They wanted to know everything about Harry; from if he remembered the night his parents died, to what his favorite color was.

And as for her, they cared little other than to wonder how someone like her became friends with the Boy-Who-Lived.

* * *

><p>One by one, the professors came to Harry Potter and tested his sight and abilities, some casually, others with more purpose.<p>

He didn't mind; he understood professional curiosity. At their prompting, he described some of what he saw; the portraits, the stones, the people, their pets.

For Flitwick, he performed charms both basic and advanced, sending the miniature man whose pattern betrayed a goblin relationship into excited jumps.

For McGonagall, he described what he saw when the woman confirmed her animagus form and transformed in front of him.

He was delighted to know that while in feline form her pattern did not change, remaining mostly human with the stamp of a cat. At length he discussed with the professor what it might mean to change the soul of an object, its pattern, instead of merely its skin or color, and how that might affect the length of the transfiguration.

When Hermione took notes on his new hypothesis, Professor Mcgonagall was surprised. Hermione didn't explain, other than to say she might make a reference to it in one of her homework assignments that was due by owl. They had agreed before coming to Hogwarts that the works of Viola would remain secret.

When Professor Snape approached hours later, Harry saw the man's deep purple shade contained odd flecks of the deepest red. When he said as much, the potions professor went oddly silent; then, without explanation, left.

When the defense professor came upon him after a long day of exploring the castle, Harry saw the same stamp of red.

This time, Moody gave him an explanation.

"That's dark magic, most likely. I have no small amount of it on me from the war."

Hermione whispered to him later that Alastor Moody was a retired auror, and pretty scarred up himself, missing an eye and a good chunk of nose. Harry was uncertain.

Alastor Moody had nearly the exact same fragment of red, precisely located on what should be his right arm. It looked less like magic and more like another person's pattern and hue. Combined with the defense professors odd hue of grey tones dappled with black, as if pieces of him were strangely missing, and Harry grew concerned.

Was it some magical malady? A disease he had never seen before?

_Would it be rude to ask?_

Hermione thought as much, when he finally asked her, and he put it aside.

At least until he grew bored.

* * *

><p>It was Albus who gently told Neville Longbottom to make friends with Harry Potter, hoping to bring together the two boys who might save the world; and it was his kind words that informed the young Gryffindor of the Killing Curse Scar's blinding consequences, with the best of intentions of course.<p>

Neville told his closest friends when prompted of his sudden desire to track down Harry Potter; Dean told the rest of Gryffindor, who told their friends in other Houses.

None had seen the scar behind the Boy-Who-Lived's ever present sunglasses; some did not believe the rumors.

Others did, and confusion reigned. Was Harry Potter supposed to be weak, now? _Useless?_ He was a _Champion! _He had cast a _spell_ in the _Great Hall!_

_He had defeated the Dark Lord and lost his sight. _The girls sighed in pity and planned to soothe a broken heart. The boys spoke aloud of helping him, while others silently lost the respect they had based on stories in the Daily Prophet that all knew now were false.

Potter hadn't killed hags and flown brooms. He was blind, he used a staff as a walking stick, he wore glasses to cover what must be white eyes. Granger wasn't his friend; she was just his guide; he never went anywhere without her.

For three days, the school sought to talk to Harry Potter out of respect and awe; and in the space of a day, their questions turned to whispers, and their glances still curious contained a morbid hint of wonder.

The Boy-Who-Is-Blind, an oddity, something strange.

Hermione knew immediately that the school had been informed; she didn't need to hear the questions about it, though none came. She saw the looks, and squeezed Harry's hand.

He didn't notice. He only continued his thoughts on the ghosts bound to Hogwarts and how their white spectral patterns seemed to feed on the magic inherent in the school he claimed was sentient.

He lived in a world all his own, and Hermione only wasted a second considering if she should tell him how the school was acting.

Then, seeing his furrowed brow as he speculated on the afterlife and its interaction with magic, Hermione placed a smile upon her face and forced the thought from her mind. Why worry him, and why should he care at all? They would complete the tournament and return to their studies, away from the wizarding world and its prejudice. Harry was a genius, and they were already famous under the name of Viola James. They didn't need the students of Hogwarts.

They would get along just fine on their own.

* * *

><p>Harry was explaining to an avid Professor Babbling how the ward structure of Hogwarts seemed to be formed when the Headmaster approached, the wizards pale blue light a beacon of power.<p>

The elderly man politely excused the Ancient Runes professor and pulled Harry aside, though he did not seem to mind Hermione's continued presence at his side.

"My boy, I'm most sorry your condition has become common knowledge. I had hoped to keep your blindness from the general public, but alas, somebody on my staff must have spoken out."

Harry frowned at his words.

"I never planned on hiding anything, Headmaster. I'm not ashamed of my disability, and if anything, it is dangerous to keep it secret. It's in my best interest for others to know I am visually impaired."

Hermione, at his side, fidgeted, her light wavering. The Headmaster sighed.

"But surely, you will at least want to keep your rather, _unique_, form of vision more closely guarded? My professors are quite frankly amazed by your abilities, but we can't trust them to remain silent on the things you have told them. I recommend you be very careful with whom you tell the things you see."

Harry raised a brow.

"You don't trust your staff?"

"That's not it at all." The Headmaster assured. "I just do not always trust their judgement. You have enemies, Mr. Potter, simply because of what you did when you were a child. They will seek to harm you in any way they can."

Harry shook his head.

"First you wanted me to appear normal to avoid being thought weak, and now you want me to appear weak to avoid letting my enemies know I am not? What is the point?"

The Headmaster made a frustrated sound in his throat.

"Please, try to understand. Your sight could be extremely useful if you come under attack. If they underestimate you, you have a better chance of escaping..."

Hermione broke in, her voice high with anxiety.

"What are you trying to say? That he's in danger? You sound like he could be h-h-harmed at any m-m-moment."

Hermione's voice stopped abruptly, and Harry knew it was both the renewed stutter and the reminder that Hogwarts was not, in fact, _safe_. He felt anger swirling inside that the Headmaster had brought both about again in her mind.

Dumbledore sighed.

"Harry, my boy, you are the Boy-Who-Lived. You may have been safe in the relative anonymity of the muggle world, but every eye is on you now. You must be prepared. I can help you. Some of my professors are more than willing to privately tutor you both, you only have to ask. We only want what is best for you."

Harry resisted the desire to snort; it was a gesture very unlike him, but seemed appropriate for the situation.

Instead, he stiffened his spine and faced the pale light with a direct gaze.

"I, and I'm relatively certain Hermione, would be more than happy to have any advice or training you would like to offer. I have many theories I would like to discuss further, and there is a lot I do not know about my own vision and why it is the way it is. One of the reasons I was so happy to come here was the chance to learn._ But_," Harry lifted his chin. "I'm not going to purposefully hide what I am. I won't advertise it, but I won't hide it either. Not the fact that I can not see normally, or the fact that what I do see is unheard of. I must live with what I am, and the rest of the wizarding world can as well."

And with that, Harry reached out for Hermione, took her offered hand, and strode back in the direction Professor Babbling had taken.

* * *

><p>At the end of their first week at Hogwarts, Harry and Hermione stood on the Astronomy Tower in the dead of night, Hermione writing quickly in her notebook as Harry paced the circular floor, unheeding of the drop on every side, his hands gesturing as he spoke.<p>

"This castle, it's changed over time, the original construction is obvious in the pattern, more saturated with magic, its pattern more cohesive. But this tower, it's integral. The ward domes center is directly above us..." Hermione glanced up at the stars with a curious look. "...and directly below us is the heart of the school, something like a computer mainframe. All the magical pulses seem to flow in or from it, leftover magical residue gathering in the center to be redistributed throughout the school, even powering the wards to some extent. There must be something below ground as well, underneath the sewers that are present in the walls, given the angle of the patterns design. Perhaps a loadstone or ward algorithm that acts like a brain, storing memories. Hogwarts will recognize damage to it, I think, if on a grand enough scale. It might even be able to act independently of whatever control the Headmaster has to counter a threat. _Marvelous!_"

Harry stomped a foot and spread his arms out wide like an embrace, the glasses forgotten in his pocket with the curfew long past, wide green eyes smiling at something she could not see.

"We have walked the entire perimeter and most of the hallways. _This place is brilliant_. We stand in solid proof that objects can be made sentient. This place is _alive_, Hermione, I'm only more certain of it. _How is this possible?_ Artificial intelligence, with magic serving as its life force, its _blood_. Magic collected over a millennium, maybe, or the Founders of this school knew something that has been lost or hidden since then."

Hermione smiled, stepping close to him.

"I don't think you are going to find out in a week, Harry. I've been reading too, and nothing in the history books even hint of what you are talking about. Rooms move, yes, but it's just understood that magic does odd things sometimes. It's expected. You're trying to claim it's on purpose."

Harry snorted.

"Of course it is. The staircases rotate based on student traffic and on how much the castle likes a person..."

Hermione laughed incredulously.

"Harry, they're _charmed_ to move randomly! _Hogwarts, A History_ states…"

Harry rolled his eyes, running a hand through his wild black hair, cut short around his ears.

"I know what it_ says_. On Rowena Ravenclaw's suggestion, the stairways were charmed to move to save space when the upper floors were constructed. But nothing is said about when they move, and _why_. I've been watching, and I see the school's pattern interacting with the students. It has favorites."

Hermione sighed, plopping down to sit while she wrote a few more notes.

"Alright. But I'm not sure where you are going with this. We don't have time to prove Hogwarts is alive, or any reason to do so. I thought you wanted to question the ghosts more, maybe explore the forest…"

Harry sighed.

"_Time_. Never enough time. I think I could spend my life in this school and Hogwarts would still be a mystery. I can truly see why it's so special to the wizarding world." Hermione's heart squeezed. Harry continued, stepping to the edge of the tower and looking down, eyes roaming the castle below. "I suppose I should be more economical with my time. It's hard to turn away from such a wonderful puzzle, though."

A gasp brought Hermione's head up and caused Harry to freeze, head tilted as he listened.

From the doorway below, a red head slowly rose, brown eyes locked on where Harry stood.

"_He shouldn't stand so close! _Does he even know the edge is _there?_" Ron Weasley demanded. While Hermione gawked at seeing him, another boy rose behind him, the large bulk of Neville Longbottom stepping forward.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, then shook her head.

"Why are _you_ here?"

Ron didn't answer. He was looking at Harry.

"Step back, slowly. This is the Astronomy Tower, you have to be _careful_."

Harry's lips tilted in a smile as he turned to face the two Gryffindors. "Don't worry about me. Even if I stepped over the side, there are spells present to prevent students, or any living thing for that matter, accidentally or purposefully falling from the sides. It would be a harrowing few seconds, but then Hogwarts would return you to the tower."

Ron frowned; Neville, with an awkward cough, cast a small lighting spell to illuminate their faces more clearly. Hermione watched both boys stare with open curiosity at Harrys uncovered face, the lights casting the scars across his eyes in vivid detail.

Neville cleared his throat. "I, ah, saw that you two were up here. It's past curfew, but... ah, well, we're able to travel about pretty good without getting caught. Wasn't sure if you have to follow curfew, but if you did, thought maybe you would like help getting back."

Harry shrugged. "Not necessary. As we are guests within the grounds of the castle the Headmaster has not placed us under curfew."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest.

"What do you really want?"

While Harry frowned at her tone, Ron flushed.

"Hermione, ah, I meant to talk to you the first day you were here, but… well, it was hard to find you at all, and… I'm sorry. I wanted to say I'm sorry. I was the one who said all those things, the others were just there listening to me. I was stupid, I didn't mean it."

Hermione began to speak; but Harry beat her to it.

"Ron Weasley?" His voice seemed stilted; an odd tone Hermione had never heard. "The _Hero_ of Hogwarts?"

Ron flushed further, and Neville stepped forward.

"And I'm Neville. I guess you know the story." The brown haired boy looked at Hermione earnestly. "I might not have said anything, but I laughed. I wanted to fit in, but it was still wrong. We went looking for you, Hermione. We just… we were too late."

His voice broke at the end. Hermione simply stood there, having no idea what to say.

It had happened three years ago, but the memory of the troll had overwritten everything before it. She remembered the laughter, remembered crying; but more than anything it was the troll, its smell, its roar, the pain.

She looked down, silent.

Harry spoke again from beside her. "Everything has consequences. You hurt her, which led her to a position that nearly killed her. I'm not sure an apology years later is enough."

Ron flinched. "I'm sorry, but this is none of your business, Potter. You weren't_ there_."

Just why Harry hadn't been there was made clear in the boy's tone; Hermione's head whipped up and she glared.

"He's my best friend, so it_ is_ his business. You never even sent a letter when I was in the hospital. Why are you so sorry now all of a sudden?"

Ron paled. "It's not like that. We just wanted…"

Harry stepped closer to her, his hand seeking for hers, clasping it tight. His green eyes were focused on where Ron and Neville stood, glancing between the two with eyes she knew were memorizing patterns and colors.

Hermione stiffened her spine.

"I know what you w-w-wanted. You thought you could use me to get closer to Harry, even though you already treat him like he's an invalid. You don't even _k-know_ him. Is this about the Tournament? Or do you just want to try to make him part of your posse of _H-h-heros_?"

Harry's hand tightened on hers. He looked down at her, eyes running over her forehead then down her neck before he sighed and shook his head. He turned to face the Gryffindors.

"You don't know me, and I doubt you ever will, but I think you are sincere in apologizing to Hermione. I don't like you very much, and I don't have to. If Hermione wants to forgive you, she'll come to you. Until then, leave her alone."

Neville nodded; Ron scowled. But both left without another word.

And Hermione stood and let Harry draw her into a tentative embrace.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	8. Orange Scales and Ridges

The days before the first task passed quickly for Harry; there was always more books to listen to, more parts of the castle to explore, more things to learn.

A few professors in particular quickly became close to friends in their shared love for learning and exploring new ideas. Filius Flitwick, whose expertise in both Charms and Dueling made him a valuable teacher in converting wand-based spells to use in a staff, was visited on nearly a daily basis. With him Harry began to experiment with moving his staff in ways other than simply down or out from himself. Flitwick, in turn, was interested to learn Harry's experiments on using the light and patterns he saw to cast spells instead of wand-movements and in some cases, words.

Septima Vector, a stern woman who taught Arithmancy, was hardly interested in his sight at all besides the potential benefits in seeing the mathematical correlation between the patterns he saw and the basic algorithms she taught. Instead, she was more than willing to spend hours with Harry and Hermione talking of numbers, geometry and calculus, some of the few muggle subjects that had a common language in magical society, even if few studied them.

Harry was fascinated by the idea of using magical numerical equations to predict the future, and compared it at length to muggle Game Theory, which muggle economists had been perfecting for years.

"Though, they call it decision science, or interactive decision theory, not predicting the future." Harry finished, while Hermione quickly continued to explain further upon seeing Professor Vector's stunned gaze.

"It's relatively basic and short-term, of course. They set it up as a zero-sum game, with each person having a set positive or negative number for each possible decision…"

The third was, surprisingly, the professor of Ancient Runes, Bathsheda Babbling. Though Harry, without the ability to read or write runes, could hardly learn the subject she taught, she was also interested in the use of ancient runes in warding schemes, in particular the ancient wards of Hogwarts that mostly still remained a mystery.

As soon as she confirmed that Harry could, in fact, see magic as light and patterns, she practically overtook the task of escorting them around various portions of Hogwarts herself, as avid as Hermione on his hypothesis of an underground warding chamber, and his descriptions of the wards and how they were shaped led to her confirming several of her own theories on the scripts used to ward the ancient castle.

He also made friends with the gamekeeper and entered the Forbidden Forest, spoke to centaurs about the stars he had never been able to see and the connection with the forest's magic and their own, watched thestrals graze and fly, observed the multitude of magical flora and fauna, always entering new colors and patterns into his internal directory and Hermione's written notes.

And on the day before the first task, Neville Longbottom passed Hermione a note with an apologetic glance, and within the paper was written a single word.

_Dragons._

And Hermione abruptly decided that the Headmaster's plan for Harry to simply forfeit was indeed a good one.

But Harry, in a abrupt change of heart at the thought of encountering live dragons, fervently disagreed. So that night was spent reading about dragons and how to survive encountering them.

* * *

><p>The task was to obtain a golden egg from a clutch guarded over by an angry mother. Durmstrang conquered the challenge with expert use of transfiguration to distract the angry dragon. Beauxbatons' work was choppy, the elder Delacour spending more time guarding her younger sister than searching out the egg. Hogwarts' Champions obtained their egg with flawless teamwork, the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor working together to duplicate the eggs and draw the dragon away from its original nest.<p>

Harry, alone, walked out to see the Hebridean Black dragon. He could have chosen a partner; but the only person he truly trusted was Hermione, and he wouldn't willingly put her in danger.

When he had chosen the Hebridean, he had immediately thought of all he knew on the species native to the British Isles. It was a smaller breed as dragons went, but also the most aggressive dragon in Britain, a creature that could carry off an entire cow or deer in a feeding. It was supposed to be a dark ebony, and have eyes so vividly purple they glowed with inner light.

But to Harry, the female dragon towered above him by at least thirty feet, its wings stretching even higher into the sky as it postured and hissed, a living breathing sun in streams of bright orange and deep yellow, its reptile pattern a thing of terrifying beauty.

He gasped; nothing could possibly describe the vision. The eggs underneath her gleamed with pinpricks of glowing light, little stars under their mother.

Except one, which seemed dull in comparison with only its wizarding magic.

He couldn't summon it; the charms to prevent it were ingrained deep. He could copy the other champions, using tricks of transfiguration and illusion.

Or, he could show the dragon that something did not belong. He didn't know what a dragon saw; he didn't really remember even what _wizards _saw, all his memories of true sight were vague and indistinct. He knew it was golden colored, or else the other Champions could not pick it out; but to his sight, that color did not register. Did dragon's see in color? Were they more like mundane reptiles, registering scent and temperature?

Harry stepped closer; the thing stiffened and snorted, its heat reaching to him, its fire burning in its gullet, a steaming cauldron.

Harry placed his staff in front of him and reached for his own pattern, bringing it up and out of his skin, his magic a gleaming green light around him. He saw the dragon watching him, its large orange head lowered over the eggs, waiting, judging.

Harry filtered his magic through the staff, the green growing red with a phoenixes essence, the gentle song ringing in his ears, calming his heart.

He could have used a million spells; Hermione had droned on and on about them. But Harry didn't see the use. Spells were fickle things that did not always follow common sense. And he had no spell for what he wanted to do.

He only had his own will and the light he could see, the simple truth of it.

"Something does not belong." Harry whispered, softly enough that those in the stands could not hear. He heard them speculating, the announcer questioning his sense, wondering if he would forfeit and what he could possibly do against a dragon.

There were dragon-handlers nearby, waiting for him to fail, waiting to save him. Many of the students were watching to see a disaster, the stands full of people catching their first glimpses of the Blind-Boy-Who-Lived.

The Headmaster, as the old wizard had intended to do, had suppressed as much as he could any talk that Harry could actually see. Harry hadn't tried to prove him right or wrong; he ignored the speculations entirely. They weren't worth his time.

The orange beast leaned closer; the spectators around him gasped. He felt its breath heat his face.

"_Something does not belong." _Harry whispered to it, and let the scarlet phoenix amplified magic spill from him and ripple across the ground to touch the dull colored egg.

It rang like a bell; empty and hollow, and the dragon reared back in distress. Again, Harry made it ring, and the orange dragon pattern, scales across spines and ridges, leaned down to take a deep sniff.

It hissed, and lunged, and the golden egg was pushed from its nest with disdain and a wild flutter of wings.

It didn't belong with the stars it had nestled within. The Hebridean Black crouched over its eggs, wary, wings impossibly wide furled around them, an orange-yellow sun. Harry smiled at it, and walked toward the fallen egg, seeing the still pinpricks of metal as he walked closer underneath the magical spells.

And as his hands picked up the smooth egg, the crowd roared its approval.

* * *

><p>Hermione didn't give Harry a choice.<p>

"I'm going with you to the Ball." She declared, after hearing the announcement as they sat in the Great Hall at the thinly veiled command of the Headmaster. She saw the hawk like gazes of the girls in the Hall on the boy beside her and found herself smirking back at them.

Harry waved a hand in dismissal.

"If you'd like. I'm not required to dance though."

Hermione laughed at that. "For the good of everyone else. You would bowl us all over and stomp on our feet."

Harry joined in on the laughter; he knew dancing would be something he could never do well.

Though, he found himself grateful that Hermione had wanted to attend the Ball with him. He rather liked the thought of it.

* * *

><p>"They want to know if you're really blind." The soft voice came from the side where Harry and Hermione walked from Vector's classroom, ignoring the stares and whispers that had only increased since the first task.<p>

They turned, and Harry looked at the oddly fractured pattern, its soft pink light in a warm tone.

"Who are you? And why are you barefoot?" Hermione asked curiously.

The girl sighed. "Luna. I'm afraid my shoes went missing again. They tend to do that this time of day."

Harry knew Hermione would be frowning though he couldn't see it. She always pulled a face when confronted with something puzzling. Harry had felt it a time or two, the skin on her face moving, the blue tinted purple light flickering with disturbance.

"What do you think?" Harry asked suddenly, curious about this girl with the odd broken pattern.

One pink arm waved through the air, glittering.

"Oh, of course you are. It's very obvious to anyone who can see. My father thinks you've been possessed by You-Know-Who's ghost and that's why it _seems _like you can see..."

"_That's p-p-preposterous!_" Hermione broke in, but the girl continued unheeding of the interruption.

"...but I rather think a fairy is sitting on your shoulder, leading your way. Or maybe a ghost only you can see, someone kind and wise, and it taught you magic too."

Hermione huffed. Harry smiled, and looped an arm around the aggravated girl.

"Well, you're more right than anyone else's theories I've heard so far in the hallways."

Luna's magic expanded and glowed with emotion, though he wasn't sure which. When she spoke, her voice remained calm and serene.

"I'm very glad."

And then her light began to move away, without a word of goodbye. Harry listened to Hermione's grumbling commentary of the Ravenclaw, and only shook his head.

"Something's different with her pattern. Its design is skewed, like its broken once and healed badly."

At that, Hermione went silent.

Later, she told him what she learned from another student, that Luna Lovegood had lost her mother at a young age, and commonly was called Loony Lovegood for the strange things she said and did. It made Harry wonder how much trauma it would take to break a pattern.

And only then did he realize what he had been seeing in the ghosts at Hogwarts, distracted as he had been by their white coloring and the purple sparks of Hogwarts' magical signature that made them quicken and live.

They were all, each and every one, broken.

* * *

><p>He hadn't expected the Ball itself to be very spectacular; but the night of the event he found himself just as dazzled by the myriad spell constructions made by professional hands as Hermione was by the ice and crystal.<p>

They spent most of the Ball at a table, watching colors and patterns whirl by, content to simply speak to one another, their own bubble in a sea of people. Halfway through, Harry reached for her hand and held it.

Hermione did not pull away.

At the end of the night, hand in hand, they walked back to their shared room, and Harry then wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her close, taking in the blue-violet light that was so very beautiful against the purple walls of Hogwarts, the perfect velvet backdrop to Hermione's pattern.

He told her as much, speaking for the first time of how beautiful her light was to him, how it fascinated his gaze more than once, of the true reason he had begun to wear the black shades.

And when he was finished, Hermione pressed a quick brush of her lips to his cheek, and retreated to her room.

And Harry felt like he was on fire.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	9. Violet Stones and Shadows

The clue to the second task lay within the egg. When it opened Harry heard the screeching and immediately slammed it shut in wincing response.

But he had had time to glimpse the pattern easily recognizable from his careful perusal of the magical creatures around the Scottish castle. Scales and fins, fish and human patterns alike, the color the gray-blue hue of the merpeople.

Hermione held the egg under water and opened it again, and together they ducked their heads and listened to the song.

* * *

><p>They could not have made more of a challenge for him if they had purposefully tried. Harry didn't know how to swim; the very thought shot dread through him.<p>

One team member was to retrieve an object from the merpeoples village at the bottom of the lake; then, they were to bring it to a floating platform in front of the school and hand it to the second team member, who would be responsible for placing the object upon a higher platform, charmed to hover high above the water.

There would be creatures to challenge them both above and below the surface.

Hermione tried to teach him the bubble-head charm; he learned it easily, but found the magic of the charm prohibited his sight to such an extent that it was useless. They tried to locate gillyweed, both in person and by owl, and found the supply sold out for weeks and nearly impossible to import with Ministry regulations.

Finally, Hermione put her foot down, and insisted on completing the first part of the challenge herself. She wouldn't have him forfeit, not after the success with the dragon, and the Headmaster's nearly insulting condescension afterwards because Harry had not followed his suggestion to lay low.

And she also claimed that retrieving a stone from merpeople would be a walk in the park.

So Harry found himself waiting as first Hogwarts, then Durmstrang, exited the water with their stones.

Then, he waited, and waited, seeing Neville triumphantly use a rapidly growing green vine of some sort to reach the higher platform, Cedric below helping cast spells to make the diving hippogriffs and pixies stay away. Durmstrang's team sent Krum aloft on a summoned broom, the man's light whirling with such speed Harry could barely follow it if he tried.

But he didn't try. His vision was focused on the water.

Fleur paced and paced, her voice sobbing, claiming attack by grindylows or the giant squid must be preventing her sister from surfacing. Harry's heart seized in nearly catatonic fear at the thought. Together, he stood next to the witch whose fiery pattern betrayed relation to a veela, looking down into the dark depths of the lake.

He saw her light flare first; blue-violet, electric, and he shouted aloud.

Hermione carried with her Gabrielle Delacour, who was swooped up by her sister even as Harry drew Hermione into a hard hug, burying his face in her wet hair.

She pushed him away, speaking quickly.

"_Go!_ To the platform! _Here!_" She thrust the stone in his hand; he could hardly care. She pushed him again, and he reluctantly turned, looking upward at the wood platform, the swooping colors of airborne creatures waiting for him to attempt to ascend.

He couldn't apparate even if he knew how. He couldn't fly a broom, never having learned the skill and knowing its dangers for one who couldn't always see correctly. He could only levitate himself, and he would have to do so quickly.

So he did. With a wild push of green magic he threw himself into the air, his staff cradled in one tight hand. When the creatures curved towards him, he jerked aside, flowing around their colors with grace.

When he alighted upon the platform and placed his stone among the others, he heard his score placing him firmly in second place, tied with Durmstrang.

And then, as quickly as possible, he returned to Hermione, who had just reluctantly made friends with the French girls from Beauxbatons.

* * *

><p>Hermione wanted to tell Harry to relax. Since the second task he had always been hovering over her, watching her and the air around her, gaze fierce and dark.<p>

_Haunted._

She remembered his face when she breached the water, his knuckles white in a fist. The fear she had read there.

He wanted to forfeit the third task. He wanted to just leave and return to the relative safety of muggle London. He seemed disinterested in their studies, even with the recent breakthrough in the creation of spirits and what it might mean about the afterlife.

She could barely twitch without him coming alert, that blasted tall staff of his at hand.

"_Stop it."_ She finally burst out, turning on Harry as he paced the room. "We're not leaving yet. I'm _f-fine! _I only took so long because little Gabrielle was too afraid to even _move_ for fear of running into more merpeople. Apparently they don't care for veela's very much. I finally took her up myself, and that was that. I used all the proper spells to get rid of the lake creatures. I'm not _h-helpless_ Harry."

He grimaced and sat. "I'm sorry. I just… it worried me. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Hermione scooted close to him, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "That's silly. _You've_ already happened to me, so I don't expect life to get dull. Plus, we need more material for Viola's next paper. Stop worrying about me and get back to work."

She poked him hard in the side, and he grunted.

Then, he laughed, and she saw the tension in his face begin to relax.

"Alright, Ms. James. Let's get to work then."

* * *

><p>At every turn, fate seemed determined to thwart him.<p>

Albus had designed the Tournament to showcase Neville Longbottom as the new savior; a hero worthy to be followed, able to destroy a Dark Lord. He had thought Harry Potter _unable_ to be that hero.

Then, Harry was summoned, by an unknown person within his very school, a follower of Tom Riddle most certainly. And Harry was shown to not only be able enough to learn magic, but possessing what could possibly be the power spoken of in the prophecy.

And the prophecy clearly stated that the Dark Lord would not know of that power, though the boy himself seemed determined not to hide it.

Now, he no longer knew the right thing to do. _Teach the boy?_ His professors all claimed Harry Potter to be an amazingly bright student, unparalleled within the school. _Warn him of the prophecy?_ He risked the child fleeing from his destiny, or worse, seeking to make it come about before he was ready.

_Wait?_

He risked his enemies making their own moves.

And yet, he had very little other choice.

* * *

><p>Harry practiced magic when he was not listening to books, studying with professors, or tracking down spirits and creatures to add to his memory.<p>

He experimented with his power, using it with and without the phoenix staff, both intoned spells and wordless ones.

The staff made up for its lack of finesse with raw magical power, the stones atop it nearly bursting with amplified light. He manipulated raw elements the best, turning them from one to the next, weaving fire and water together as shields or weapons, raising earth in jagged spikes or flinging it like arrows, riling air to a ferocious wind.

Uncomplicated, simple patterns and light, with so much more potential in offensive and defensive maneuvers than complicated spells that required complex wand movements and precise wording. Magic at its most pure, strong and bright.

He preferred fire most of all, the sparking patterns of bright red and deep orange, the lighter the color the hotter the flame.

Once, in the dead of night, he left Hermione alone to slip from the castle onto bare ground, and there finally cast the spell he had most longed to cast.

_Fiendfyre._

It bloomed so pale it was white like a ghost, hot death, assuming the forms of animals of all kinds, magical and muggle alike, nearly sentient as it craved to consume life. Uncontrollable in its urges until he was forced to let it go, cutting off his magic from feeding it further.

And in the wake of it's destruction, he felt humbled.

There would always be something he could not master in mere moments, if he ever could at all.

But he would greatly enjoy the challenge.

* * *

><p>The students at Hogwarts seemed of a mixed mind toward the Blind-Boy-Who-Lived. Some, after seeing his ability in the Tournament and his easy way of walking through the halls thought that the papers might have gotten the news of his vision wrong. Others thought that perhaps it merely was not as serious as proclaimed.<p>

Several rather thought that Harry Potter was the next Merlin, and therefore being blind simply couldn't make him any less spectacular. That these found themselves in a self-styled Harry Potter Fan Club, whose members tended to stalk the halls looking for the elusive teen, wasn't a surprise.

But a few watched every movement they could of Harry Potter very closely, who he was close to, what professors he learned from, what unique abilities he might possess, and this information was reported most diligently to those relatives who wanted to know.

* * *

><p>The third task was set near the end of term, months past the second. There was no need to involve Hermione; it was to be some sort of obstacle course, observed by all as they sat high above them.<p>

To Harry, who had to wait to enter the maze second with the Durmstrang Champions, it all seemed superfluous.

It was supposed to be some great challenge, showing off the strength of various school's prime students. It had done that to some extent; no one could doubt the prowess of Neville Longbottom and Cedric Diggory in Hogwarts.

_But why had Harry been involved at all?_ The question had haunted him and Hermione both the entire time, wondering who would wish to bring them into public light. Was it simple curiosity? Was it in hope of tarnishing his reputation, or highlighting his disabilities? It had done neither, for now many assumed he was not blind at all despite his glasses and the obvious use of his staff as a cane. He moved too easily; seemed to _see_ things coming his way, following movement with his eyes and avoiding obstacles.

Of course, they didn't know that was only because of the magic that saturated everything around the school and its grounds. They couldn't know that anything of plastic or concrete would send him sprawling on his face, that he couldn't tell simple colors of portraits or decorations, couldn't read or write ink on parchment. They only knew what they saw; and that was powerful in a tournament of magic.

In the maze, Harry split off from Durmstrang and began a leisurely stroll. He was in no hurry; he didn't want the Cup or the prize. He had learned enough in his months at Hogwarts that it was worth the hassle. He only wanted to complete the test and return to Hermione and his studies.

He heard the screams from the crowd; heard the cheers and jeers.

He heard the announcer's description of events as they passed. And as he completed a simple riddle from a fascinating large feline pattern he was excited to learn was a Sphinx, he heard the confusion.

Durmstrang had turned against the competing Champions. It was an unexpected strategy; the challenge was supposed to be from within the maze, not from the other competitors.

Hogwarts' Cedric Diggory was down; Beauxbatons had fled in retreat, Neville Longbottom valiantly covering their escape. Then, Krum was defeated; the second Durmstrang champion also falling to the Gryffindor's wand as she simply stood there in apparent forfeit.

And in front of Harry, unnoticed by the eyes riveted on the combat, the maze moved out of his way, tearing itself apart and restructuring at the hand of some other's wand.

Harry saw the pale magic tearing apart the green plant life; he knew that someone was leading his way. He could have turned aside; but what was the point? The answer to the mystery lay ahead, waiting to be solved.

Someone wanted him to walk on, so he walked, staff swinging from side to side, eyes wide open for tricks of magic.

The announcer cried out his name; Longbottom was rushing for the center of the maze.

But Harry was already there. He looked at the Cup, a crystalline pattern of deep purple light.

And like a spiderweb on its surface another spell lay, the stamp of a portkey. The trap set to spring.

He saw Neville's unique brownish-green hue, rushing towards the Cup, the red wand in his hand sparkling with light against the deep green backdrop of the hedge maze.

"_No!"_ Harry called, walking as quickly as he dared towards the large boy, feeling slow and useless, not used to moving fast.

Neville, on edge from Durmstrang's vicious tactics, attacked first, spells flung wide in his haste. Harry dodged some and dispelled others, slowing to raise his staff in protection.

The boy was close; close to that magic that would send him away to someplace else, either the start of the maze or somewhere far, far worse.

Harry, the suspicious thoughts at the forefront of his mind, was betting on worse.

So when he knew he would not beat the boy to the Cup, he did what he had to do for the one who laughed at Hermione's expense years ago but had apologized for it since and was sincere; who had given them the hint about the dragons though it gave them an edge in the first task.

"_Accio Cup!"_ Harry called with a lash of emerald magic, and let the trap spring upon him.

* * *

><p>In a graveyard of violet stones and shadows, the sickly red and brown hues of a rat animagus was waiting for him. He was bound before he could fight; his staff fallen at his feet.<p>

It was the disorientation that made him pause; the portkey's spinning colors still making his mind reel. Then he saw a different pattern being brought closer by the brown shade of rat, a giant coiled serpent at the feet of what had to be Peter Pettigrew and one other person.

It's pattern was red, like heart's thick blood, the deepest shade he had ever seen, and it was the pattern he had seen stamped upon the colors of Professor Severus Snape and Alastor Moody. If Dark Magic was what caused such a taint, then the being in front of him had nothing of the Light left in him.

And it was broken, a mere fragment, that spoke in a high nasal voice and called itself Wormtail's Master.

The confusion left him; the final pieces of the puzzle found, the picture now laid out complete before him.

Lord Voldemort had been scheming all along behind the Tournament, not dead at all as he had been lead to believe. Lord Voldemort had been waiting, this broken remnant pattern of a wizard_, waiting_ to trap him. Wanting him at his mercy.

It appeared he might owe the Headmaster a small apology; he was about to profit greatly from being underestimated by his enemy.

Harry did not wait when he saw the still gleam of metal in Pettigrew's hand. He called to the light in the staff at his feet; sang the phoenix song in his heart. He felt the bindings on him rip and tear and fall away, and he slumped down to fall upon the scarlet fire and green wood that made him so much more powerful.

The rat pattern of Pettigrew scrambled away, calling to his master in high pitched tones. Harry spared him no attention, unsure if Lord Voldemort was weak even when broken.

He flung out the green ropes of an _Incarcerous _spell at the Dark Lord, feeling both rewarded and relieved when the bloody pattern was bound in emerald light.

"_Harry Potter!"_

Voldemort roared, a wand of familiar phoenix tones in his hold, like a brother to the staff he held. But the wizard did not cast a spell; his magic apparently as broken as his pattern.

Harry saw the rat begin to change; shrinking in size, the brown deeper in hue, fur tones stronger than human.

Perhaps he thought he was hidden in the grass, able to escape; but Harry saw Pettigrew clearly as a spot of brown among the sea of green plants and purple stones around him.

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_ Harry enchanted, and was pleased to see the pattern freeze.

"_Kill him!" _Voldemort raged and struggled and hissed, and from the grass the large serpent came, lightning fast, brown and red scales with the yellow shade of poison upon it. _Perhaps a magical breed of constrictor_, Harry thought absently, and raised his staff in a silent shield.

The brown and red light jerked and slid away, words hissing from its form.

"_It sees me, Master!"_

For a second, Harry paused in shock; _was there a breed of magical snake that spoke? _But then the familiar tried to strike again, slamming against his shield with an audible thunk, angry hisses spilling from its mouth that he heard as spoken curses.

"_Petrificus Totalus."_ Harry muttered, and was surprised when the snake's light shed the green stunner with hardly a shiver. He quickly raised his shield again with wordless intent, eyeing the large serpent as it hissed curses, circling him rabidly.

"_Incarcerous!" _He tried again, and again the snake shed the light. Natural resistance, maybe, or else the thing had multiple layers of protection charms.

Time for some creativity.

Harry dropped his shield, and with a wave of power and intent transfigured the pale air into bright pinpricks of metal, quickly threading them together around the thrashing snake as it curled and struck the new bars.

And as the cage closed around it, holding it still for the moment, Harry realized he must be mistaken; for the brown snake pattern was distinctly different from the red pattern that seemed etched over it; a very familiar, _human_, red pattern.

Unlike the smaller taint upon what he now knew to be the arms of Death Eaters, the snake's entire being was overlaid like a murky film, collapsing in on each other in places, human and snake, red and brown, two souls in one body, unlike anything he had ever seen before.

Something he had not known was even possible.

And the human soul that crouched upon the brown light was as fractured and broken as the bloody monster that howled in anger under his spell.

For a long moment he stood still, appalled, in a graveyard surrounded by enemies he had overcome perhaps through sheer luck, or perhaps just their own incompetence, and considered yet another puzzle that had arisen.

Two broken fragments of one soul, each controlling a separate body. Perhaps he had indeed killed Voldemort after all when he was a child and gained his scar. Perhaps what he saw before him was only the remnants of a wizard who had not properly died or become a spirit as normally broken pattern tended to do. Perhaps Voldemort's pattern was tethered to the world in the slivers before him.

_What a fascinating thought. _An entire realm of new questions and possibilities opened before him; and he _really_ did not have any more time to think on them.

The snake thrashed again, and to his surprise he saw the metal pattern caging it crack and begin to break under the serpent's strength. He frowned sternly at it as the thing fell free, brown and red light fixing on him with vicious intent.

Well, he _had _tried to take the specimen alive.

"_Kill!"_ The snake hissed, coiling to spring, and Harry banged the butt of his staff hard against the ground, his green magic bonded with the scarlet phoenix song of the staff as he struck in a much more powerful, and deadly, spell.

"_Confringo!"_

Unlike the inferior binding spells, this one did its intended job. The brown light of the snake shattered into pieces, its pulsing life beginning to slow with death even as the remains fell to the ground.

And the red sliver of broken soul that had covered the snake wrenched free and began to perish with an unholy howl, fading to nothing as all human souls did when the body they inhabited no longer had life.

Harry spared a moment watching the still pieces of the brown snake, Voldemort quiet now behind him.

He wondered if one part of a soul knew when the other part died; if they felt the loss. Then, with a grimace, he reached out for the portkey at his side, it's web still alive and functioning, levitating the Dark Lord and Pettigrew close enough to touch, though his skin crawled at having their lights so close to his own.

"I will have your _heart _for this,_ Potter_. I will destroy you and _everything _you hold dear."

Voldemort hissed in a sudden high, whiny voice, the small, almost child sized scarlet light gleaming with furious rage.

Harry didn't answer. He didn't quite know what to say.

He only wrapped a hand around the Cup and let it take them all away.

* * *

><p>There were no words for the shock that came over the stadium when Harry Potter appeared with a wanted criminal and something<em> other<em> in tow.

The world dissolved into pandemonium. Reporters clicked wild pictures; aurors swarmed like bees around a hive. The Minister yelled for order; the Headmaster of Hogwarts rushed to cage a squealing bundled monstrosity from attempting to escape inside of another host.

The horrible name of Lord Voldemort was said aloud; and in the quiet that followed, the Headmaster of Hogwarts confronted the bundle and it responded in a hiss that too many wizards and witches heard.

"_You can not kill me, Albus Dumbledore! I will never die!"_

No one was watching Harry Potter except a single witch with tears of relief in her eyes at seeing him unharmed; and only she saw Professor Moody reach to lead him back away from the possible danger in front of him.

And she was the only one who understood when Harry let the black glasses upon his face fall away and turned his gaze up to find where she sat among the crowd. His piercing green eyes met hers, and she saw the anxious warning there.

She jumped to her feet.

"_Get Down!" _

Her scream rang out over the crowd, the only words of warning she could think to say in that instant; words she had heard more than once in muggle movies.

The crowd, already on edge, startled and scrambled at her words; but it was the loud explosion from behind that sent them to the ground when Alastor Moody turned his wand upon Harry Potter and tried his best to kill him.

* * *

><p>Harry had been watching Voldemort when the steadying hand at his elbow tightened; He looked down to see the damning stamp of bloody red on Moody's forearm.<p>

"Come with me, boy. It's not safe here." The gruff man murmured.

Harry knew better; one never went with the enemy where they wished to take you, no matter how one was threatened or coerced. The only advantage you had was to strike when it was unexpected, on your own terms.

And Alastor Moody was a trained and deadly wizard. If the man meant him harm, Harry would need every advantage he had.

"I'm fine here, thanks." Harry replied softly, but the man's grip did not waver. Harry felt him lean closer, his light burning bright with gray swirling into black.

"_I must insist."_

Harry closed his eyes; then he nodded and took a step back, reaching up to pull the glasses from his eyes and let them fall to the ground by his feet. He raised his head to face the stands, finding the gleam of blue-violet, the beloved pattern, assuring himself that she was far away from any damage that might occur.

He heard her shout something even as he whirled, bringing his staff up between himself and the professor, breaking the older man's grip.

He heard Moody curse in dark tones, saw the bright green-orange gleam of a wand that bore a dragon's heartstring.

Then Harry raised the golden light of the shield _Protego_ as the professor's gray magic swarmed towards him with the deep crimson stain of dark magic.

He heard the explosions; but worse, he saw the patterns flicker then fade around him as the curse was turned aside to strike the nearby stands, wooden sparks flung into the air, people screaming, patterns muddling together in a confusion he could not interpret.

He could only defend himself, backing up one step after another, pouring more and more of himself into the shield, the dark magic eating away the golden light like nitric acid onto flesh.

He heard orders, commands, attempts to rally behind him. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that battle was raging in more than one part of the stands. He had no time to worry about his friend.

His shield shattered, and Moody laughed.

Then Harry knew there was no use trying to only defend himself, when the people around him were dying.

So he called to the light inside the earth, the deep purple tones of rock and stone, some of it bearing the castle itself's pattern.

And with a desperate twist of his own emerald light, he flung his staff out from him and made the purple light into a new familiar pattern, one deadly, one large and powerful.

And he sent it to attack.

* * *

><p>Later, when the rubble was settled and all of the statement's taken, everyone could agree on one solid thing.<p>

_The dragon surprised them all._

The Death Eaters in the crowd, waiting to hear their Master's call, or better yet, see his triumphant return, had taken the attack upon the Boy-Who-Lived as the final signal to bring them to arms. Seeing their master, the frail thing caged by Dumbledore, had frozen them; but the explosion of a portion of the stands and the death of several of the Ministry's guarding aurors had given them courage again.

Albus Dumbledore, faced with attack from unknowns within the crowd, securing the Dark Lord and his servant, and the attack on Harry Potter, had to make a horrible choice; to save those around him, or continue to bind the darkest wizard that had risen to power since Grindelwald.

He chose to hold He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the scales in his mind falling to where the greatest good might be gained.

It was left to the remaining aurors to battle the rogue Death Eaters, the Dark Mark rising above their heads, but telling friend from foe was difficult, and the casualties of both the fleeing innocent and those battling were steep.

None were left to help the Boy-Who-Lived; but soon, he didn't need it.

Hermione, forcing herself between the stampeding students and press, had only managed to reach the outskirts of the battle between her best friend and the Defense Professor when a hand snagged her, pulling her back.

Before she could cast a spell, the black-haired Potions Professor spoke harshly in her ear, a shield rising from his wand to turn aside a particularly nasty curse.

"_Foolish girl! _You'll only be in the way! He needs no distractions now!"

She turned to argue with him; Harry would be nearly blind with the amount of spell light being flung through the air!

_He wouldn't be able to cope!_

He wasn't a _god_, he was just _Harry_. He couldn't take on a Death Eater alone.

And when she turned, her fears were realized as she saw Harry's shield fall, and heard Moody laugh.

Severus Snape cursed under his breath, pushing her aside to step forward.

Then, the ground shook under their feet and Hermione fell to her knees with a harsh gasp, the shouts renewed around them in horror.

Because between the dueling wizards claws were pulling themselves from the ground, sharp pinpricks of rock, spines, ridges, stony scales and a large arching neck.

It happened fast; a blink of the eye, really, was all it ever took for Harry to change the pattern of one thing to another. Hermione had seen it before, on a much smaller scale.

She would have thought, later, that something large would take more time to transform. But as it turned out, it only took more space, and that space made the world shake and tremble.

The ground was an empty, collapsing hole; the stands were beginning to fall, witches and wizards fleeing in a riot in any direction they could.

All, away from the stone dragon that launched itself at Moody with wicked intent, its long tail lashing behind it with the crunch of rock upon rock.

Hermione squeaked; then Professor Snape picked her up from the ground and pushed her away.

"_Run!"_

* * *

><p>To Harry, the thing he had created gleamed with the still purple light of stone, only infused into the pattern of a Hebridean Black.<p>

The professor hardly put up a fight; later, Harry would learn that there were few spells that could blast apart the amount of solid stone he had sent at the wizard. The man only spent enough time to block the first few efforts of the lumbering beast to snatch him in its jaws before sprinting away.

And without apparition, Moody was left only one means of escape; the edge of the wards.

The dragon couldn't fly; neither was it very fast. If anything, it was an extremely awkward creation. But it had a few things going for it; surprise, and the terrible appearance it gave.

He saw Moody's gray light disappear; and he simply stood, weak and trembling from the effort it had taken to transform the stone, leaning heavily upon his staff, wary.

"_Merlin_,boy." He heard a whisper, and turned to see Professor Snape's pattern.

He stiffened; the man also bore the bloody mark.

"Peace, Harry. He is one of mine." The pale blue light of Headmaster Dumbledore said; but he couldn't relax.

"So was _Moody_." Harry snapped back, and saw the blue pulse with emotion.

"That was not my dear friend Alastor. If I am not mistaken, that was Bartemius Crouch Jr, who has been thought dead for some time."

The world was spinning; His eyes burning, burning, burning. Harry groaned at the sensation, and heard a growl from the distance, hissing words reaching his ears.

"_This isn't over, old man!"_

Dumbledore only sighed in response.

"I very much fear it is not."

* * *

><p>With the appearance of the dragon and the flight of Crouch, the opposition ended. Those that did not escape were rounded up by the Ministry.<p>

But in the end, three students would never return to the castle, and nearly three dozen were wounded. Of the spectators, two were killed, with five times as many injured.

And the Ministry lost eleven aurors, half of them new to the force.

It was a blow the wizarding world had not seen since the war against the Dark Lord; and the only thing that pushed that news to the second page of the special edition of the Daily Prophet was the picture of a mutated terror under a single headline.

_**Boy-Who-Lived Captures He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!**_

Standing tall in the background, elegant staff in one hand, was Harry Potter, his face uncovered for the first time in pictures, scars twisted across his face in thin white lines, eyes open and focused on the monster at his feet in fierce concentration.

And when his blindness was finally mentioned, it was done with a reverent tone, as if describing a gruesome wound that had been overcome with spectacular skill.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	10. Black Stone in a Golden Ring

_**Authors Note:** Much thanks to justjakewilldo, for pointing out a potential plothole so I could fill it in! Much appreciated. :)_

* * *

><p>Harry had never thought he was the kind of person who would hide from the world until the days after what was dubbed by the press The Tournament Tragedy. The pressure of an entire society's expectations were stressful enough; having the awestruck gazes of the students on him was simply too much to handle.<p>

He spent the first day in his rooms at Hogwarts, comforted by Hermione's soothing light and words, recovering from both the magical strain of transfiguring so much stone, and the headache that had plagued him since he heard the last words of Lord Voldemort before the monster was taken into Ministry custody at the hands of Headmaster Dumbledore.

What he saw in the graveyard with the snake and its portion of broken soul he shared only with Hermione; and his new thoughts on soul patterns and the ramifications they might have she wrote carefully in with his previous notes.

On the second day, news came in the form of a visit from the Headmaster, and the story the older man told was only overshadowed by the plans the Ministry had made.

Alastor Moody had been held captive by Crouch, who had stolen the ex-Aurors hair for Polyjuice Potion, a magical concoction that copied one genetic pattern onto another person for a short time. It had worn off during the duel with Harry; and Alastor had been found locked in an expanded trunk.

Harry made a mental note to look into space-expanding charms and the concept of something being bigger on the inside. _Interior dimensions? Worlds inside of worlds? Wormholes?_

Meanwhile, interrogating Voldemort had proved useless; the man only spouted out answers in angry, sibilant hisses, a language none knew but the serpents the wizard liked to surround himself with. But Pettigrew had revealed under Veritaserum that Crouch had been part of a plot to restore the Dark Lord's normal human body, as the wizard's soul had somehow managed to survive while his original body had not the night Harry's parents died.

_A broken soul, _Harry thought, _identical to the one inside the snake as well_. Everything he had learned so far had led him to the conclusion that broken patterns would become spirits, if they died in a place with sufficient magic to act as fuel for the incorporeality. And while some spirits were capable of possession, none fit the description of what the two slivers of Voldemort were.

But he wouldn't get a chance to study the phenomenon closer; the Ministry had made its pronouncement in the morning paper.

There would be no waiting; the Wizengamot had met in an emergency session, the trials had already taken place for both Pettigrew and Voldemort, though Dumbledore implied there was no one willing to represent either of them in court.

Those that might have had already been exposed in a Ministry-wide sweep for those bearing the renewed Dark Mark, as new regulations for mandatory showing of the left forearm had also been implemented the very day after the Tournament. No arrests had been made yet; but several dozen workers were missing, never showing up for work. The aurors were working day and night to track them down for questioning.

The Minister would no longer tolerate terrorists in his country. And to show his, and his Ministry's, willingness to do whatever must be done to find and punish those who sought to overthrow the government, Peter Pettigrew and Voldemort, also known as Tom Riddle, were both to be Kissed and executed in succession inside the very Atrium of the Ministry, to be viewed by all who wished to see the infamous Dark Lord put down like the dog he was.

Hermione told him that Dumbledore had looked grave when telling them the news; Harry couldn't understand why. It seemed a triumph to him, to finally kill what was left of Voldemort once and for all. And with Pettigrew's statements, Sirius Black was now fully exonerated, if posthumously. Every loose end had been wound up, except for Crouch and the Death Eaters who had fled. But without Voldemort as a figurehead, Harry was uncertain how they could raise another force to truly challenge the irate Ministry.

But then again, students Harry hadn't known had died. The victory had come at a cost.

_Hermione could have been one of those students._

Harry wouldn't forget that fact, either.

* * *

><p>Dementors made his stomach roll nauseously. Their tall forms seemed to be brown from far away; but closer, he could see the hundreds of shades and patterns that mixed together to form that dirty brown color, yellow and orange and blue and green and purple, a kaleidoscope of souls.<p>

He had read about them specifically once he learned they would be used to execute Voldemort and Pettigrew.

Hermione gripped his hand tightly; she had not wanted to be here. The Ministry Atrium was crowded with people; aurors, reporters, the Wizengamot, the angry, the curious.

For his murder of twelve muggles and his part in the plot to resurrect Tom Riddle, Peter Pettigrew had been sentenced to the Kiss in a public trial.

Voldemort's trial had not public; but none were surprised that the verdict was the same. The Dark Lord's crimes were too many to number, and the trial itself was mostly just for show, so the Ministry could look effective after the past debacle with Black.

And Harry had not been given much choice in attending the spectacle that was to follow. He was now touted as the Blind Mage in the papers, the tales of his spectacular wordless magic at the Tournament spreading far and wide and only growing in the telling.

_The dragon had been a bit much_, he had acknowledged to Hermione afterwards. But it had been the very first thing to occur to him, and it had been effective if nothing else in ending the battle.

The dementors hovered closer, the crumpled pattern of Pettigrew on the ground.

The wizard was on a raised dais, along with the Minister, Dumbledore, and select aurors. Harry himself stood with Hermione and even more aurors who acted as guards near the stairs.

Too close for comfort to those creatures.

The Minister finished intoning his list of the crimes of Peter Pettigrew, though Harry was hardly listening. He was watching the dementor instead, as it leaned over the wizard and began to draw the color out of him.

Hermione gasped and trembled; later, he would need to ask what it was she saw that was so frightening.

Because what he saw was horrifying enough.

When it was over, Harry saw a dead human pattern, the white light still and unmoving. A cadaver, like many he had looked over before.

If there was an afterlife, Pettigrew's soul would never make it there; Harry saw it filtering and digesting inside the magic of the dementor, and fought not to be sick.

* * *

><p>No matter how broken a pattern was, it seemed a dementor could still destroy it.<p>

When they left, after what remained of Voldemort had also been Kissed, the press swarmed over them, asking questions, taking pictures. The aurors cleared the way for them, a small bubble of privacy, until the apparation point was reached.

The Headmaster himself was waiting for them, a regal phoenix upon his shoulders whose pattern was distinctly familiar.

Fawkes, whose feather resided in his staff, and also in the wand that the Ministry had just snapped into two distinct pieces in front of the world before flinging them into a waiting pyre.

The phoenix sang a short song; despite himself, Harry was cheered up a little, his slumped shoulders straightening.

The Headmaster took both their hands, and the phoenix took them all back to Hogwarts.

* * *

><p>With no more Tournament and the aftermath of it settled, there was no longer any reason to remain at Hogwarts.<p>

The students exams had been canceled and they were sent home the day before. The castle, empty, was still as full of light and magic as ever.

Harry was sad to leave it.

Hermione, however, was eager. Her parent's owls had only been getting more worried as time passed. The Dursleys had included their own notes to Harry, all of which hinted that they would be more comfortable if he returned home sooner rather than later.

Both families had been informed of the disastrous outcome of the Tournament, and both were equally unhappy about it.

So when Hermione finished gathering their things, countless notebooks stored carefully inside an expanded and weightless trunk, they made their way downstairs to their scheduled portkey.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore had a problem on his hands, and one not easily solved.<p>

What had been destroyed of Tom Riddle the day before was unfortunately not the end of the dark wizard.

He had suspected the wizard had attained some form of immortality; and that had been confirmed four years ago when a soul fragment had possessed one of his professors, and doubly confirmed when another portion had tried to take over the school using a basilisk.

Two confirmed pieces, both dead, and he greatly feared it was not over yet.

But there was only one man who might know for certain how many times Voldemort had split his soul using one of the darkest forms of magic.

And Dumbledore had to convince the coward to tell him.

* * *

><p>If not for the dead students already weighing on his conscious, he might have been more gentle.<p>

If not for the two dead pieces of a soul already dispatched, he might have been more diplomatic.

"_I know you know, Horace. Even if you've hidden it from yourself."_

And when the former potions professor stammered and blubbered and begged, Albus Dumbledore did what had to be done to help preserve lives and perhaps wizarding Britain itself.

And when he pushed through to view the true memory of what happened one night so many decades ago, he had the answer to the question he had been turning over in his mind for so long.

_Seven. _Seven times, the magical number. The goal of Voldemort, if he had been able to attain it.

_Seven._

Which meant there were five more pieces to find and destroy.

* * *

><p>Crouch had the last orders of his Master, ones given in the dark of night when he first reunited with the Dark Lord.<p>

If everything was lost, if they were thwarted, if the impossible happened and their enemies struck them down once again.

There were two more ways to continue the righteous struggle.

The first was supposed to lay in Malfoy Manor, in the care of Lucius Malfoy.

But Lord Malfoy and his precious Manor both were under the guard of aurors, the first of suspected Death Eater activity, and the second for housing multiple dark artifacts that had been found on an abrupt search after the Tournament.

That left Gaunt House and the many wards that bound the item he was to search for.

It took Crouch a week and a great deal of experimentation to finally get to the ring; a golden band with a simple triangular black stone inset in it.

But once he had it, he heard his Master's voice again, inside his head instead of out of it, and it whispered to him what else he must do.

* * *

><p>Harry's toes were bruised from colliding with the concrete stairs that lead to the London school. His elbow smarted from hitting a door; his shins were in pain from walking directly into a desk made of what must have been plastic composite or some form of particle board.<p>

It was enough to make him resort to mild cushioning charms on his clothing in self-defense.

He had forgotten how dark the muggle world was, surrounded by the purple stones of Hogwarts.

And most of all, he had forgotten how magic moved outside of all the laws of nature and science he had learned in his youth.

At Hogwarts, the world consisted of wondrous light and mystery, new discoveries around every corner, so many books to listen to and professors to experiment with.

But in the stark reality of the muggle world, Harry could see more clearly than ever that things truly did not make sense between the worlds.

Magic followed magical laws; or, at least, most of the time. Science followed scientific laws, at least until they were disproven. Both sets of laws discovered by men and women, magical and mundane alike, over centuries of experimentation and thought.

But taken together, at the same time, both violated one another spectacularly.

Even something as simple as basic transfiguration principles did not seem to correlate with physical laws. Before going to Hogwarts, Harry had spent a great deal of time with Hermione focusing on Transfiguration, how it was done and why, where the excess energy and force might go when transforming something larger into something smaller; and where the extra might come from when changing a mouse into a cup.

His urge to find out _why_ magic worked had, ironically, faded at Hogwarts. But now, confronted with his own limitations, his drive had returned.

But in order to focus on such things, he had to officially graduate from the London secondary school and free up his days.

His advisor was thrilled that Harry was moving on; even as he was extremely curious about Harry's time at Hogwarts and what had come out of it.

"A lot of study." Harry summed up the experience in a brief sentence. He hadn't been able to say more when he left other than the standard Ministry line that he had been accepted into an 'exclusive boarding school in Scotland.'

"They have a wondrous library."

He would miss that the most, after his expanded sight.

And after a few more minutes of polite conversation, it was done, and Harry walked out of the muggle school for the last time as a student.

* * *

><p>Hermione jumped back into mundane school with a fervor, eager to put all that had happened at Hogwarts behind her.<p>

It was odd, not having Harry with her in the halls, not meeting him for lunch in the cafeteria. Odder still to not meet him in the library to study in the afternoon period, or listen to him rant on one subject or another that was taking place.

But after school, Harry was usually waiting for her.

The black-haired teenager was focused on figuring out a way to bring science and magic together. Hermione wasn't sure why he bothered; neither world could ever really understand the other unless both had all the facts.

The day wizards learned muggle science would be the day muggles learned of the wizarding world's existence.

In other words, never.

"Never say never." Harry said gently, when she said as much. "I think magic is the property science is missing; the chaotic element that changes the base facts, rewrites the equation time and again. From my research, I would say in the last fifty years muggles have come close to discovering magic all on their own. What would wizards do then, I wonder?"

"Obliviate the scientists who discovered it?" Hermione muttered, thinking of past 'accidents' and the Ministry response, and then just how much technology had changed. Would obliviation even work at _all_ on such a large scale?

Harry laughed at her words, and returned to his experiments.

* * *

><p>At the end of the summer, Viola James released her research in controversial papers on the basic rules of transfiguration, challenging the ability to transfigure things permanently in any way. She stated that a rat was always a rat, which is why turning it into a cup could only be temporary. She stated that air was always air; which was why adding it to a rat when transfiguring it into a chair would last at most seven to ten hours, depending on the amount of magic spent on the transformation.<p>

She claimed that magic was the fuel source in such transfigurations, and that magic, when burned, gave the ability to change the basic pattern of one thing into a likeness of another, but still left traces of the original pattern even when the physical aspects completely agreed that the act was perfect. That magically, the rat was still a rat even when it was a cup, with thoughts and urges that it could not act upon while stuck in the cup pattern. That a cup, transfigured into a rat, only followed the instincts of a rat's pattern but had no more intelligence than a cup.

She claimed this was why the animagus transformation was possible; a human still had a human pattern, even when physically they copied a feline pattern down to the minutest detail. She claimed that these pattern would leak over time, leaving an animal stamp upon a human pattern even when in human form. Viola concluded that, if any human spent a great deal of time in a different pattern, whether that of an animal or an inanimate object, the pattern might also leak onto their original human pattern, giving the human characteristics of the foreign pattern.

This was why an experienced witch could transform herself into a table, and still be aware of the world around her, and even transform herself back on command, something a true table would never be capable of as it possesses no brain. This was why an animagus or human transfigured into an animal could overcome animal instincts and be capable of complex thoughts outside of the animal brain, even when using animal neurology.

She added in the existence of intelligent spirits and poltergeists; how they are all remnants of human or magical patterns that survived the death of the original body, fueled by the magic of the places they haunt.

Souls, Viola James claimed, were only patterns unique to every living thing, human and animal and plant. Patterns that existed outside of a physical body, which was why changing the physical did not alter the base patterns thoughts and feelings. It was why changing the physical was temporary. It was why sustenance of any kind did not transfigure well or at all but could be duplicated with ease.

This explained why Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration worked, and yet had exceptions.

Finally, Viola James concluded that none of her hypotheses could be truly proven unless one had the ability to see patterns.

And in response to the paper, the Board of Transfiguration and Transmigration Studies insisted on meeting Viola James in person to congratulate her on her superior research and flawless experimentation.

And like every time before, they were denied.

* * *

><p>Harry sat back in Hermione's chair, looking over Hiss as the feline reclined on his girlfriend's bed.<p>

_Girlfriend._ Though Hermione held his hand, hugged him, kissed him, labeling her a girlfriend simply did not compute well. It seemed too juvenile; too temporary, too easy.

_Simply not good enough._

She was, of course, a _girl _and his _friend_. Technically it was correct. He supposed an outsider would even say they _dated_, as they went many places together both during their research and their free time. They were best friends who really liked each other. Who were more than friends.

He tried to think of it from a scientific perspective, as he would approach a problem. His heart pounded sometimes when she was near, or his palms sweated, or his mouth would go dry; all signs of adrenaline and increased blood levels. He enjoyed her presence more than any other person or thing; it literally brought him joy to be near her. Would that be dopamine or serotonin? Oxytocin or vasopressin?

Was love literally just a combination of chemicals in the body?

"It doesn't make sense, Harry."

Hermione's voice brought him from his thoughts; he turned to look toward her light as it paced across the shadowy carpet floor.

He smiled, raising a brow, and heard her growl under her breath.

"Viola's latest paper. Or at least, it doesn't because we have Hiss. If you're right, then Hiss is really just a combination of air and stone patterns, forced into a cat pattern. He's not really a cat. Then why, after so long, _is_ he still a cat? It would mean in reality we did not make a cat at all, but a… a, magical construct."

Harry looked back at the brown pattern as it stretched lazily across the lighter brown cotton bedspread, speaking softly.

"When I made a dragon out of stone, it was a magical construct. It was stone, and a shoddy job at that as the stone was so obvious. When we made Hiss, we completely overwrote the previous patterns into a feline pattern. Its color and shape alike are perfection."

Hermione stomped one foot.

"Then why doesn't _every_ transfiguration work that way? It makes no sense."

Harry's smile faded into a frown.

"The conclusion I have come to is that the witches and wizards can not see patterns. They see the physical, and so they manipulate the physical elements, not the _soul_, of an item. With the help of advanced runic structures and the cooperation of several participants, they can make the physical transfiguration _deeper_, influencing its soul, so that the magic lasts longer. But it never quite changes it. This is why the Ministry tests of our previous papers on transfiguration _did_ prolong the transformation past the standard day, but didn't last more than a month. Hiss here has passed his year mark."

Hermione hovered closer to him, her hands seeming to flicker as they made a gesture he could not follow.

"Because only you can see patterns that we know of."

"Yes." Harry agreed, and Hermione continued.

"Then that means you are an exception to the conclusions you just presented in this paper."

"Yes." Harry nodded, and looked back at the cat.

Hermione sat beside him, one hand warm as it touched his own, their light flickering together as they touched.

"What does that mean?" She asked, and Harry's frown deepened.

He looked away from her as he spoke.

"Science itself isn't rules men have declared absolute; true science is a search _for_ truth. It's a way of organizing what we know and making it all make sense collectively. I fit in there somewhere, Hermione, I just haven't figured out how yet. I'm like one rogue element in a formula, making the results of every equation I try change. My vision makes every charm and curse and spell have the potential to turn out differently than the norm. It's throwing off my experiments; but at the same time, it gives me the opportunity to more accurately understand what is happening, if I can only figure it out. I'm not describing this right."

Harry paused, shook his head. "I'm not_ breaking_ any rules. Magic isn't, either. It's taken me all summer to figure that out. There is reason and rationality and rules to all magic can do, just like there is with everything the muggles have figured out so far in nature. What we call magic is simply another force to consider mathematically, one whose limiting factors have not all been discovered. More complicated than most, of course, because I am almost positive that if there is some sort of math to it it is capable of changing based on the user and how it is used, or, better put, its environmental factors."

Harry turned to face her, holding both her hands in his.

"But that's speculation. For me, it means that I am capable of changing one type of soul into another. I can change a rat into a cup and make it a cup in every way that matters. I can make a dog into a cat, a tree into a stone, water into fire." He took a deep breath. "I can make a dead tree live again. Quickening, I've decided to call it. Putting natural movement back into a still pattern. I've done it once before already, a long time ago, and did not even know what I was doing at the time."

Hermione's lights flickered; shock, maybe. Her heart's rhythm jumping and speeding up. Harry looked over her beautiful light and held her tightly as he prepared to admit what had only just begun to occur to him as he followed his research to its full conclusion.

"And though I haven't experimented yet, I believe I can make a pattern die, stealing the movement from it, the magic that fuels its life. Using my own magic to change its live pattern to a dead one. The excess force, or fuel, distributed into the air, would be able to be gathered if one could see it. In theory."

Hermione's hands felt cold and clammy now; her breath fast. She tugged her arms, and Harry let her go.

She stood, and he knew she was looking down at him, could feel her eyes even if he couldn't see them.

She was silent a long moment, and then she cleared her throat.

"In t-theory, then. Would this work with h-human patterns?"

Harry was already stiff with anxiety; at the question he had expected, he didn't flinch, though the unconscious renewal of her stutter betrayed how deeply the thought disturbed her.

"Depending on environmental factors, yes. The human pattern goes… elsewhere, sometimes in a matter of seconds, other times in hours or days. While a tree's dead pattern only slows to a stop and can be easily restarted, humans have both the base white light of their human body, and the unique pattern of their souls. The soul disappears, except when it changes into a spirit. If the pattern is only in the process of fading, then yes, I believe I could make it live again. If it is gone, then no, it would have to be completely reconstructed, which seems impossible at this point without a great deal of familiarity with the pattern in question. What would be easier would be transmigrating a ghost's pattern into a empty human cadaver and then quickening it."

Hermione made a strangled sound.

"You mean, b-b-bring a ghost_ b-b-back to l-l-life?!_"

"Essentially, yes."

Hermione seemed to jump, she paced across the room and back so quickly. She mumbled under her breath; she snarled to herself.

Then, she snarled at him.

"_No one can know about this._ It would ruin your _l-l-life!_ What people would _w-want _from you… I can't… _I c-c-can't even imagine!_" She threw up blue-violet arms and shouted. "_No!_ I _c-c-can _imagine! You would be a circus f-freak, or, or some sort of _g-god_, bringing the dead back to life! You w-w-would be summoned to hospitals, or, or b-brought to dying d-dignitaries bedsides, or traveling around the world putting ghosts into _d-dead b-bodies._ They would probably be asking you to summon souls back from the afterlife next! _R-r-resurrecting M-m-merlin!_"

Disgruntled, Hiss jumped from the bed and scrambled from the room as Hermione's voice escalated. Harry stood and tentatively walked closer, holding out his arms in front of him until they collided with her heaving chest.

Flushing, he moved them to the side to draw her into a hug that she reluctantly accepted.

Against her hair, he murmured. "I've thought of some of that. Even the resurrecting part. My experiments have led me to believe in some sort of afterlife that human patterns retreat to." When she stiffened further in his arms, he quickly continued. "Which is why I agree with you. There is no need at present to tell anyone what I might be capable of. I have no desire to be put in that position. I have quite enough fame as it is."

Hermione laughed weakly, leaning into his embrace.

There was a creak at the door, and Harry glanced up to see Mrs. Granger's light standing nearby. Hermione backed away from him with a quick stride.

"_Mom! _I, ah, we were just..."

Mrs. Granger cut her off. "I heard shouting, was worried something was wrong. Good to see you two have worked it out."

And her steps retreated down the hallway with the flickering movement of a wave.

Hermione sighed.

"Now we've done it. I had her convinced we were just friends."

Harry shifted uneasily.

"Is that a problem...?"

The Dursleys were under no such illusions. Harry hadn't even thought to hide his changing relationship with Hermione from them. Dudley in particular had given him an odd combination of fist bump and high five that Harry hadn't had a clue how to physically respond to.

Hermione's voice was amused.

"Only if _you_ mind. My mother already considers you part of the family; I think she has been dying to get the two of us together for a while now. Expect to be invited to all the family get-togethers now. You'll get to deal with my crazy uncles."

Harry relaxed, and Hermione stepped closer to him. He felt her hand touch his, and by reflex he turned his palm over, clasping their fingers together. She leaned into him again with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, for shouting. I'm just worried."

Harry drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her warm light with a small smile.

He supposed it might be odd, to be glad that she was worried. But it meant she cared, just as he did, enough to value another's well being more than ones own peace of mind.

"It's alright. I've got several experiments planned to explore the phenomenon. When we know more, we can more accurately prepare for what we are dealing with."

Hermione let out a soft laugh and pulled away. Harry felt her hair brush his cheek and neck, and his heart skipped a beat in response.

_Hormones_, he thought dryly, and sighed.

* * *

><p>Ludovic Bagman was drunk; good money made in bad ways was always spent easily for him.<p>

And the drink helped him forget just how unwise outsmarting goblins had proven to be.

He never saw the spell that struck him outside the Hog's Head Inn; and when he awoke, he rather wished he was still pissed and worrying about goblins, not staring at a potion in a cauldron, bound hand and foot, while a hand held his throat with cold fingers.

But he was not afraid for very long.

* * *

><p>Crouch found the graveyard; he gathered the ingredient and retreated with stealth.<p>

He captured an old irritant of his father's, and bound him at the altar.

He stirred the potion counterclockwise with precise, calm movements.

Then, he slit the throat of Ludo Bagman, and let the blood flood into the cast iron cauldron.

His Master hissed his approval; Crouch himself thought it a stroke of brilliance to take the washed out Head of Magical Sports and Games when the wizard thought he was safe in Hogsmeade, right under the nose of the great Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry's aurors.

And now the annoying, boastful bastard was dead, his life going to resurrect a far superior wizard.

Crouch threw the old bone of Tom Riddle Sr. inside with a plop, the murky red liquid sloshing wildly. He tasted the thick foggy air and sighed in pleasure at the smell of fresh death.

It was now his own turn to give once again to the cause.

"_Flesh of the servant."_ Crouch murmured to himself, and lifted the silver knife to his forearm, laying it over the black mark of his Master.

With a jagged, painful motion, he sawed off the skin of the tattoo, the flesh that most represented what he was and would always be. A snake inside a skull. Cunning unto death.

_Death Eater._

With a pained and satisfied gasp, he tossed the scrap of marked skin into the cauldron.

Then he lifted the ring high into the air.

"For you, _my Lord!"_

And he let it fall.

* * *

><p>Later, when Tom Riddle stepped from the cauldron, youthful flesh smooth and pale like death, face oddly misshapen with eyes a deep glowing red, the golden ring rested on his right ring finger like a mark of betrothal.<p>

And to his most faithful servant, he gave a new mark, one that would never be hidden.

Across Bartemius Crouch Jr.'s face, a black tattooed skull grinned in macabre humor, a snake protruding from his lips to curve across one cheek.

At times, it almost seemed to move.

* * *

><p><em>~End of Part Two: To Be Continued~<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	11. Brown Soul-Eaters

_**Angela's Note: **__Here is the first chapter of the six chapters in part three! I will post one every two days in the coming weeks until all are up. As for my eyes, my right eye has healed with perfect vision, and my left is only slightly blurry. I have some issues with my retinas causing black spots, but the doctors are hopeful those too will improve with more time. Thank you for all the well-wishes! They made me feel much better about the situation. As always, many thanks to __**GJMEGA**__, my beta and coauthor, and I hope everyone enjoys the latest chapter!_

_**GJMEGA's Note: **__Hello once again! Once more I must thank Angela for allowing me to work with her on this story. I've never independently authored my own story so I have nothing to compare it to, but coauthoring this story has been both a treat and a great mental challenge. I hope you all enjoy this next part and continue to support both it and Angela's other work. I also hope to do further collaborations with her in the future._

* * *

><p>The Diary had been first; his first true, savored kill, his first time fracturing his soul and shattering it.<p>

The Ring had been second, less than a year later, and Riddle had gained a taste for it, the exquisite pain, the flood of power and strength that came with such Dark Magic.

The strength had faded, but Riddle knew how to gain more of that feeling.

Looking into a mirror for the first time, he beheld the true malevolence of what he had become; though Crouch had expected his twisted appearance, Riddle had not been prepared to see red eyes instead of hazel, split nostrils and gaunt cheeks instead of the round, human softness. Though he was younger by decades than his older self had been, the dark magic of the resurrection ritual had twisted his form just as severely. He was no longer a handsome boy; he was a deformed monster.

But he couldn't mourn his lost looks when he had to deal with a lost empire.

He understood something of what was going on, memories gleaned from the mind of the older wizard who had found him, inevitable conclusions falling into place.

His older self had failed; and not only once, but twice over. He did not know the details that Crouch himself did not know; any hope of regaining the memories of an older horcrux lost with the execution of Voldemort.

Had he made more? Would he ever be able to find out?

He had to regain his past glory; or was it his_ future _glory? He had to grow in strength and take his revenge. He had to become Lord Voldemort once again, not the seventeen year old Tom Riddle who did not even remember graduating from Hogwarts.

He needed his followers; and they were locked away in Azkaban Prison.

A prison guarded by darkness, cold deep darkness, beings that knew the sweet succor of taking a life and making it shred and tear and die.

He had always thought wizarding kind should have thought harder about bargaining with such creatures.

No given meal was as sweet as one_ taken._

* * *

><p>The letter came in the pale blue claws of a large owl.<p>

Harry, of course, couldn't read it. But before he even tried his usual spell to read it aloud, so familiar he could cast it in his sleep, the tan light of the parchment unfurled on its own and began to read itself aloud.

The goblins had always been courteous to him.

What they had to say, however, surprised him greatly.

"Sirius Black's Heir?" Hermione said doubtfully, when he came to her house the next day.

"It seems." Harry replied with a frown. "He left a will, though his estate was frozen while he was considered a criminal. Most of the assets were seized by the Ministry a long time ago, though they couldn't touch the family Vault or properties. I've been granted a sizeable sum in reparations to cover what was taken, though Dripsnout, the Potter Manager who looked over the documents for me, says it does not amount to the total value lost. Nearly all the properties were sold to pay fines to the families who claim Black killed someone of theirs. That hasn't been repaid, and won't be."

"So you've basically inherited a title?" Hermione asked, and he could read the disapproval in her tone.

She never had approved of the aristocracy in any of its forms.

Harry laughed.

"Well, no. There's one house, somewhere in London, and probably a fortune in magical artifacts that couldn't be touched by the Ministry, not to mention the reparations. It's only poor compared to the Potter Estate."

Hermione's light flickered as she appeared to shake her head. Or was she nodding it? It was sometimes hard to tell. Her hair, a wild halo of blue around her head, bounced regardless.

Harry smiled.

"What are you s-smiling about? Happy to be a little richer than all of us poor normal people?" Hermione snapped, and a new voice suddenly entered the conversation.

"_Hermione Jane Granger." _Mrs. Granger's voice came to them down the hallway. "We are most certainly _not _poor. Why, your father and I own the Dentistry, _and_ this house. When I think of all the people out on the streets…"

Hermione groaned, her light dimming. Harry only wrapped one arm around her and led her towards the kitchen, where Mrs. Granger was still preaching on the woes of the_ true _poor.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore had thought long and hard over the summer about the possible location and form of the five horcruxes whose existence thwarted him.<p>

Based on his own knowledge and memories of the young Tom Riddle and the boys fascination with the Founders of Hogwarts, he could assume some, if not all, of the items were related to the Founders.

But there were very few items that could truly be considered _owned_ by an actual Founder. One was the sword he held in his own office, Basilisk venom coating its goblin-forged blade.

But Albus doubted Riddle would have wanted to use anything of Godric Gryffindor's.

Of Rowena Ravenclaw, only a long-lost diadem was said to exist, an artifact sought after for its ability to increase the intelligence of the wearer.

A talk with several ghosts, most notably Helena Ravenclaw herself, led him on a search of a forest in Albania, only to find that someone had beat him to the hollow tree where the diadem had rested for centuries.

He didn't have to guess who; only where the diadem had been hidden when Tom Riddle was done with it.

Helga Hufflepuff's descendents still lived; and the tale they told him of the departed Hepzibah Smith gave him two important clues. One, that both a cup reputed to be Hufflepuffs and a locket supposedly Slytherins had once been in her possession. The second, that a young wizard surnamed Riddle, who worked at the time at Borgin and Burkes, had been one of the last to see her alive, before disappearing soon after himself.

Three items, all belonging to founders, all hidden in places he could only guess.

The diary had been with a Death Eater; perhaps these three were as well.

Albus began to make more lists; of known followers and their houses, both alive and dead.

Of the potential fourth and fifth horcrux, he could only hope they dealt with something from Riddle's past; the orphanage, or his parents.

Then, armed with as much knowledge as he could hope to gather, he called together his companions of the last war, the Order of the Phoenix, and gave to them all the next task they must complete, if they ever wanted to have lasting peace again.

But he did not tell them what they sought; only that they were dark artefacts with the potential to resurrect the Dark Lord.

He knew the world did not need anymore people with the knowledge of horcruxes in it.

* * *

><p>Crouch told him of old acquaintances; and Riddle made them new once again. He spoke vibrantly of pureblood supremacy and the inheritance of magic; its power, its sacred strength.<p>

With a young man's fire, he ranted of mudblood encroachment, taking the life from their old values, stealing the magic of their children and rendering them squibs.

He repeated the words he had spoken to Albus Dumbledore before the crowds of the Tournament; _You cannot kill me, I will never die! _

And when he thought he had gathered enough eager minds, he fixed his blood-red eyes upon them and spoke of Azkaban Prison and the force that waited there.

And as a simple afterthought, he remembered the picture that had boldly proclaimed one boy as his conqueror, and thought to eradicate a thorn in his pride as well.

* * *

><p>The desperate idea came to Harry as he tediously navigated through the muggle park, seeking his cousin with urgent intent.<p>

The muggle world was so much darker than the magical world; because it lacked that defining brightness, that extra spark of life. The park was better than some areas, of course; trees and grass at least gave him a floor to stand upon and a horizon to see.

But nothing could compare to the wizarding world's brightness, of magical fauna and flora and the humans themselves, souls possessing something _more._

He had several hypotheses he had yet to test on just what that something was.

But he had learned clearly that his own magic, when it altered patterns, when it even touched them, transferred some of his own light to that object. When he was a child, and knew no better, he had accidentally moved things out of his way that he should not have even known where there.

And now, he really, _really_, needed to recreate that childhood experience.

Dudley had left him an hour earlier to meet his friend in private; Harry had been content to wait, satisfied with observing the world around him, cataloguing any new nuances in familiar patterns, working through problems in his head while his cousin discussed whatever the muggle boy didn't want his cousin or parents to know of.

And it was then that Harry had seen that familiar nauseous pattern, the putrid mix of brown and every other spectrum that screamed _dementor_.

_Soul-Eaters._

And he had known everyone around was in danger, including his cousin. Defenseless against something he could not see, blind as all muggles would be when confronted with creatures of such darkness.

And it was taking him too _long_ to reach Dudley, tripping over plastic partitions, stumbling into rubber swings, knocked flat by composite jungle gyms, the dementors growing closer, the chill of their presence creeping over him.

There was a spell to ward off dementors; but he had never learned it. He had been too busy with what he thought were more useful pursuits.

_He had to find Dudley._ They had to get _out_ of there.

And in desperation, Harry flung out his magic in front of him, thinking of himself when he was a blind child in a world he did not understand, stamping his light upon everything and everyone in an effort to gain some form of mastery.

And he saw the next set of swings; emerald light sparkling in their curved seats as they floated with the low level levitation charm.

_Yes._

Harry felt a grim smile twist his lips; and for the first time in his life, he stretched his legs out into a careless run, a constant stream of magic flowing ahead of him, seeking, searching for his target, as he dodged obstacles right and left.

_He had to reach them first._

* * *

><p>Dudley leaned against the fence with confident swagger.<p>

Across from him, Piers rolled his eyes.

"Man, you can't be serious. Not even a little?"

Dudley's smile was sharp.

"I told you already, I'm _done _with that scene. Allison's dads a copper, and she's the nicest piece I've ever had. She's invited me to her parents cabin next week with her family. You think any of that will happen if I take a hit?"

Piers scowled.

"All of this over some girl. You used to be fun."

Dudley straightened with a scowl of his own, his bulk putting him at a far greater advantage than the one Piers, scrawny and tall, had.

He opened his mouth to speak; then he caught sight of something decidedly odd.

The swings across the fence were levitating.

His mouth still open, his eyes saw them rise one by one; then a bright red seesaw levered in the opposite direction with a loud bang.

The hairs on his skin rose; he felt a chill where he stood under a suddenly cloudy sky.

"_What the hell…?"_ Piers muttered, swinging around.

And both of them saw the large dome of metal monkey bars break and bend in nearly elegant lines as a single form raced through the middle of it at a breakneck pace.

Green eyes locked on them.

"_Dudley! Run!"_

He didn't have to be told twice; if it made his cousin run like _that,_ using magic in _broad daylight_ _outside_, he didn't see the point in asking _why._

* * *

><p>He needed help, and he needed it fast.<p>

His lungs burned; his magic was weakening from the constant stream of levitation around him. Ahead, Dudley and Piers' patterns jerked and flickered, blind panic in the second boy's voice as he shouted questions at his friend.

Dudley didn't answer, save to repeat Harry's command to run.

But the dementors were drawing closer; Harry felt them at his back, cold fingers at his nape.

And they were simply too far from the main streets. Only mere minutes had passed; and the dementors showed no sign of slackening their pace.

He had to face the facts as they were lining up; the dementors were after him specifically, and worse still, the aurors whose patterns he had seen following him ever since the Tournament, silent unofficial guards, were nowhere to be found.

And Harry was positive the Trace was still not active on his magical signature. He had performed too much magic with no repercussions.

_Help wouldn't be coming._

"Dudley." Harry panted, and saw Dudleys pattern slow. "Keep… going. Call… _Hermione. _Tell her…_ dementors. Ministry."_ Harry felt a slight pain at his side; a flick of magic soothed the ache.

"_Hurry."_

"_But…"_ His cousin began, but Harry was slowing.

"_Go! Now!"_ Harry barked, and turned, facing the poison in the air.

The patterns, two of them, twisted and brown, sucking in the light from everything around them, even some of his own green from where it lay in levitation charms.

_They could eat magic, too, then. _The useless scientist in him made note._ Or perhaps it is the emotion used when casting the magic. Fear, anxiety, frustration._

"I suppose its time to test another of my hypotheses." Harry said aloud, looking over the dementors. He stood tall, his staff in front of him, searching for calm, searching for peace.

But the brown patterns seemed determined to draw out every negative emotion and memory he had ever had.

Distantly, he heard a woman scream his name, loud, agonized, _terrified_. His heart skipped a beat.

They made a sound; a pleased hiss. Harry saw deeper emerald creeping into the muddy mix of colors, his own strength becoming theirs, and a core of anger rose inside him.

"_No." _Harry snarled, and he gathered his light and latched onto their pattern.

Then, he made the movement of the brown light stop, and it was not a woman whose scream tore the air in two.

* * *

><p>There was a very good reason no aurors had been watching Harry Potter that day at the end of summer; only an hour before the dementors appeared in Surrey, Death Eaters attacked Azkaban Prison in force, seeking to free their incarcerated sympathizers.<p>

For Rufus Scrimgeour, that hour passed like the blink of eye; orders given and followed, constant updates, all available personnel being called in, sending reinforcements to certain apparition points, beefing up security in various Alleys in case the Prison was a decoy attack for some other more devious plan.

But his preparations of the last year had not been done in vain.

Britain was ready to face the threat; and though they sustained casualties, it was the Death Eater forces who lost the battle and died in droves.

The convicted Death Eaters that had not died in the revolt were being rounded up for execution; the time for half-measures was long past.

_Another statement would be made._

And the dementors, which had turned traitorous, were even now being rounded up for banishment.

He had never really liked the beasts anyway.

"_Sir!"_

His aide piped up, nervous voice quivering. _Weasley._

Rufus turned slightly, one eyebrow raising in question.

The freckled man quickly spoke. "One more incoming alert. Disturbance reported in Surrey, um, Harry Potter…"

One name, no more, and it was enough to galvanize Rufus into action again. One target, the most important one of all. He should have thought of that first; of_ course_, it was so_ obvious_. With Potter defenseless, the Dark Lord would take his opportunity to attack.

"Tell me on the way." Rufus ordered, and began to stride towards the lifts.

* * *

><p>Hermione hadn't wasted time when she listened to Dudley's frantic call. She went immediately to the emergency portkey provided for her by her tutor, in case of any magical emergency, to take her directly to St. Mungo's.<p>

There, she told the front desk clerk her urgent message, and had it delivered to the Ministry.

It would be hours before they remembered her, and an auror was sent to pick her up to return her home.

* * *

><p>Harry tore out the yellow first; a girl's soul, bright like a flower, dead in its youth and innocence. Then he took the orange and the reds, magical creatures that might have been goblins or perhaps only wizards with such ancestors.<p>

The pattern, its sickly brown light frozen in some semblance of death, revolted him. And because he would not leave it alone, where it might possibly reanimate, he had decided to destroy it utterly instead.

He reached for the brown and shredded it, pulling out the loose colors like unraveling a tapestry peice by peice. A blue one; a green; pale and dark, so many, hundreds, thousands of souls, all trapped and spun together and lost. He ripped into it with all the emerald light he had, angry at something that had stolen the beauty from the world and made it ugly.

Also, a little curious, and a little bored, and the adrenaline from his wild search for Dudley still pumped through his veins so he had to do_ something._

He chose to destroy, so destroy he did, but in a very scientifically thorough manner.

He had confirmed two theories already, after all. He had proved that he could use basic spells in order to see obstacles in his way, and he had proved that he could make something die by freezing the natural movement within a pattern.

That made it a productive day.

With a small smile on his lips, Harry grabbed a long thread of deep purple and pulled it free, watching it shimmer and glisten as it floated into the air, shimmering into a white hue before fading away to some other place, where all the colors go when they die.

Then, the aurors arrived, the Minister himself with them, and Harry had to answer some very difficult questions.

* * *

><p>Dementors could not just be killed with a spell; Rufus knew this for a fact.<p>

They could be banished to the sea; they could be repelled and forced to flee. They could be enslaved or bargained with. They were rumored to fade away if advanced age was attained, which was why the world was not overrun with them.

But they couldn't be killed.

Which was why none made a move when they arrived in Surrey and saw Harry Potter, tall staff held in hands that glowed with green light, in the process of tearing apart what could only be a dementors carcass.

It was an ugly, twisted thing; The black tattered cloak fallen away, grey skin stretched tight over bones that were not entirely human nor animal, jagged things with sharp angles.

There were two carcasses, one of which looked flayed open, long strips of skin gone, some bones vanished, pieces of its cloak ripped loose and cast aside.

And as they watched, Harry Potter turned blind eyes to them, green orbs glowing slightly just as his hands were, an odd smile on his face.

"It appears that the souls are used as fuel to keep their forms corporeal and alive, assimilated shoddily into their physical body, and even their clothing."

Rufus felt a shiver go down his spine at the calm, calculating words. Then, the boy shrugged.

"I'm sorry if my cousin was quite panicked when he sent his message. I was not certain I could deal with them on my own, but… it seems they are not _quite _immortal after all."

And to the Minister's surprise, one of the aurors on his right barked out a laugh.

* * *

><p>Harry could not tell them how he did it; though he knew the Minister was not an ignorant man, and probably guessed that there was nothing <em>accidental<em> about him killing the dementors. That Harry broke the Statute by using magic in front of Piers Polkiss was waved off after a quick oblivation charm and a promise that Harry would act more discreetly in the future.

The Minister, instead, apologized for the lack of auror guard, and explained some of the difficulties that the Ministry had faced that day.

"You'll read all about it in the papers, of course." The man concluded, and Harry shrugged. He was certain the papers wouldn't label it a _difficulty_; probably more like a_ fierce battle for the freedom of wizards and witches everywhere._

"Were all the Death Eaters caught?" Harry asked, and saw the Minister's pattern, a strong greenish-yellow thing he knew would be called _chartreuse_, pulse with pride.

"Nearly. I must return now, for more reports. If you are quite safe to return home yourself…?"

Harry lifted one shoulder and smiled.

"I'm not alone. You've already set more of your men on me."

The Minister laughed; but he didn't deny it.

It would be bad for Britain, after all, to lose its savior.

* * *

><p>Hermione was distraught; the only thing that distracted her from her panicked relief that he was not a soul-less husk was him demonstrating his new form of "sight".<p>

"I'm... n-not sure what to s-say." She finally mumbled, observing a room of floating objects. "It's a bit... _noticeable_."

Harry laughed.

"Levitation was the first thing I thought of. Imbuing normal, shadowy objects with magic to make them visible to me. Color charms should work as well, though I can not know what color I make them. Any low-level spell would work, though used too long and it will wear me out."

Hermione folded her arms.

"Any spell would be commented on in public. This would only work if you are alone."

"I'm going to practice. Find a way to make it less spectacular." Harry answered her, and saw her pattern gleam.

"You're sure you're _a-alright?_" She asked softly, and Harry stepped forward, carefully pulling her into his arms.

"Perfectly fine. It seems a test was in order, that's all."

Hermione laughed brokenly, shaking her head.

"Only you would call an attack by rogue _d-d-dementors_ trying to kill you a_ test._"

"Experiment, then?" He teased, and she growled.

"Experiment like that _again_, _a-a-and I'll_…"

Harry cut her off, lifting her chin to place his lips on hers in a long kiss.

When he lifted his head away, she was silent for a moment.

Then she hissed at him. "D-don't think I'll get distracted by physical affection!"

Harry grinned.

Then he decided he ought to test her conclusion, in the name of science of course, and kissed her again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	12. A Yellow Kreacher

Riddle did not understand what had gone wrong.

The plan had seemed so solid; and with the dementors on their own side, flawless. The initial assault had gone as planned; wizards on brooms, the dementors turning upon the auror guards among them at the signal.

But there had been far more guards than Crouch remembered his father speak of; and the aurors that had been called from the interior floos had been prepared and ready in formation to defend with vicious measures.

There had been no simple binding spells and defensive maneuvers, no Hogwarts-grade spells to petrify or stun. The Ministry aurors had aimed to debilitate and kill; and their fire had been burning bright to get their own revenge for their brethren lost during the Tournament.

His Death Eaters had not stood a chance. Riddle had watched them die in droves from his broom; and then saw the auror wands turn upon the prisoners with riotous intent of their own, the bloodlust upon them as dark as any he had seen in his own followers.

Almost, it seemed the aurors were the true Death Eaters, and the witches and wizards who followed himself heedless victims in the face of their fury.

Crouch had quietly read him the list of known casualties, the wizard's voice thick with disbelief.

Of the thirty who had attacked, only seven returned. Of the nearly four dozen imprisoned Death Eaters, only ten had actually been freed from their cells, and they had all been struck down before they could flee the black stone castle.

Tom Riddle was now Lord of only five men and two women. Anyone else who might have joined him if he had succeeded had changed their mind the moment Rufus Scrimgeour had boldly announced the Ministry's overwhelming victory, and the subsequent Daily Prophet articles that had compared all of Riddle's efforts of the last months to the mere yapping of a dying crup; the last baying sounds of a creature nearly dead, a movement nearly vanquished to the annuls of history.

_How had he done it in his future? How had Lord Voldemort risen to such heights?_

_What had he learned that had made him so feared, so respected, so powerful?_

_And how could he possibly recreate his own self?_

"We have had no news about the dementors set on Potter." Crouch finished finally, the black mark on his face moving with each word. "But as nothing was said regarding an attack, we can only assume the Ministry prevented it, as well."

Riddle waved one hand in petulant dismissal. "Who cares about that blasted _boy_, when the attack on the prison_ failed?_ I'll never understand _why_ I wasted _everything _trying to kill him when I already had all I needed in my grasp! I could have destroyed the Ministry within _weeks! _I could have taken Hogwarts _itself!_"

The thought drew him, of having the revered castle under his control. His home, really; and Salazar's Chamber underneath, the perfect throne for an Heir.

_Dreams_, all _lost._ All because his older self had tried and failed to kill an infant; and later, insisted on targeting the boy instead of using a more suitable specimen for the resurrection ritual like he himself had done.

Crouch licked his lips nervously.

"My Lord, you were_ very_ eager in your pursuit of him. It was… a preoccupation."

More like a rabid addiction, by all accounts. Riddle had begun to wonder if perhaps his future self had delved too deeply in the darker magics and gone insane.

And he would never know.

"Some even whispered that you were aware of the boy's potential to defeat you; that you sought to kill him as an infant instead, but… failed."

Crouch ended the last with a cringing wince, as if expecting some blow.

Riddle detested the way they all acted as if he might harm them at a words dissent. Was he a fool, to surround himself with_ fools,_ who had to be whipped in order to obey?

And Crouch's words had merit. Had his older self somehow_ known _what was going to happen_?_

It threw his erratic actions in an entirely new light.

Riddle sat up straighter in his chair from the slump he had been in before. A new possible direction to go in; and perhaps an answer.

Maybe it had not been his _own_ fault at all; maybe there_ was_ simply something special about that boy that unraveled all of his plans.

"That would make far more sense than simply trying to eradicate the Potter family. Look into it for me; we certainly have little else to do for the next few months, with the Ministry dogs hounding our every step."

* * *

><p>"So you have a house now?" Dudley asked casually, as Harry sat at the bar in the Dursley kitchen watching his aunt's pattern flicker to and fro in food preparation.<p>

He had been attempting to test a new hypothesis; simply infusing his magic into objects, making them visible, without actually enchanting them to do anything.

It had seemed to work; he could see the plastic utensils and corian counters in vivid green detail.

But when he spread it out statically around him in a sphere, his light inevitably also infused the human patterns as well.

It had a decidedly odd effect on his aunt; she seemed to have a sudden burst of energy and a craving for homemade cookies, puttering about the kitchen like a fiend.

And her pattern, if he was not mistaken, was actually feeding off his own energy, drawing it faster than the mild influence of the plastic composites.

Like a mild drug, Harry mused, stimulating the senses. Increasing already present feelings, in this case hunger, but also equally effecting energy levels so that the elevated desires can be met.

_Is it always hunger? Would...?_

"Harry?"

He blinked, turning slightly to observe Dudley where the boy sat. The soft green imprint of Harry's own magic lit the boy's natural hues, making his form more distinct to his sight.

"Yes?" He asked, and saw with fascination as something like a frown seemed to alter a mouthlike shape on his cousin's face.

He had never been able to see facial expressions before; but this close, his green light managed to fill in normally opaque details.

_Not perfect; but if he increased the amount of magic released closer to his body…_

"Mum said you inherited a house."

His cousin's voice was slightly impatient; Harry nodded.

"Yeah, seems so."

"_And…?" _Dudley questioned, and it was Harry's turn to frown.

"And what?"

Dudley rolled his eyes; Harry saw the gesture with fascination, round orbs seeming to rotate in an open skull.

_Wait, skull?_ He was certain that was not right. Not only was his cousin large framed and cheeked, one's bones were never that sharply defined with muscular structure.

A slight flicker of his magic altered his vision again, the sight of a skull fading away, replaced with the smooth lines of a green cheek.

Only, the eyes were now empty hollows of color.

Dudley leaned closer, and the macabre sight of an eyeless emerald face drew near.

His cousin's voice dropped to a whisper.

"You_ know_, have you taken_ Hermione _there…?"

From the kitchen, Harry was abruptly aware of the sound of his aunt's movements. He let the magical expenditure of his test fade away, his cousin's form collapsing to the gentle swirling pulses of the muggle pattern he was accustomed to.

Harry gestured away from the bar and stepped off the stool, moving toward the empty living room before turning to his cousin.

"_Quiet! _You want aunt Petunia on my case now like she's on _yours?_ Of course I haven't taken her there. I haven't even been there myself."

Dudley snorted in disappointment.

"_Seriously? _You have access to an empty, private place and haven't taken advantage of it? I would _kill _for…"

Harry reached out to idly swat his cousin's arm.

"Stop it. I don't… I mean, I haven't really thought…" Harry drifted off.

Well, of_ course_ he had thought of, well,_ things._ Who doesn't? But he had never even considered trying to bring Hermione to some abandoned London house.

First off, she would be far too busy exploring for any books or magical artifacts to bother making out.

Secondly, there was every likelihood he would be right beside her digging around for anything interesting.

And thirdly, it would be just his luck if the place was either about to fall in on itself, or cursed with some sort of odd spells or magical creatures.

Still, now that he really thought about it, he did need to see if there was anything interesting over there, and of course Hermione _would_ insist on going with him…

Dudley laughed.

"Well, you're thinking _now!_ Go for it, man. She's really changed since last summer, you know. That new thing she's doing with her hair…" Dudley suddenly stopped, awkward. "That is, she's ah, tamed it a bit. And I think those parents of hers must have fixed her teeth, too, or maybe it was a spell, but they're not nearly as, ah… noticeable…"

Harry shrugged casually; but inside his heart sank.

He hadn't ever seen her hair or her teeth. He knew the former was brown only because Dudley had told him so years ago.

And it had never bothered him before to not know.

But did it bother_ her_, that he couldn't notice such changes she made? She had never even mentioned problems with her teeth or that she had gotten work done.

"Yeah." He said simply, and left it at that.

* * *

><p>Hermione frowned at where Harry stood, leaning against one wall, his staff propped against his shoulder while his hands absently twisted the fabric of his green shirt.<p>

His aunt always dressed him in green, black, or grey button down shirts; with black trousers. Hermione wondered if Harry had ever even bothered to state a preference, or if he was content to simply let Petunia buy all his clothing.

Then again, according to Harry, all clothing was usually brown, green, or shadowy black, with the exception of magical clothing which might bear the stamp of a spell pattern or innate magical characteristics.

"Why did you change your hair?"

The question startled her; she looked up from her study of his dragon hide boots and her thoughts of what it would be like to see fire patterns on ones feet.

"What?"

Harry's mouth turned down in what was nearly a frown, only his eyes seemed to smile. She had long gotten used to the fact that Harry's expressions did not always show his true feelings; he couldn't observe the minute details other peoples body language, so often his own did not match.

"Dudley told me you changed your hair, and... well, your teeth."

She resisted the urge to raise a hand to cover her mouth; her overly large front teeth had been a source of contention from her earliest memories. Too many mean nicknames, and too many laughing gestures.

In a moment of vanity before the Yule Ball, she had fixed them herself; then had to deal with her parents extreme disapproval at the tactic.

As dentists, they did not like to see how easy it was for magic to put them out of business.

But she never even thought Harry would notice. It hadn't been done for him; rather, for the girls who glared at her because she had him on her arm.

"I did."

Now, Harrys eyes frowned too.

"Why?" He insisted, with the same expression he would have worn when questioning the legitimacy of a difficult puzzle.

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Why _not? _Because I could."

Harry blinked at her.

"But _why_ does the size of your teeth or your hair matter?"

Hermione reminded herself that she was talking to a _boy_ who did not even care what color clothing he wore. Also, he was a _boy_, and according to her mother, they would _never _understand the fine arts of beautification.

"I wanted to look different." She wouldn't say pretty, because that sounded silly. "It's not like I had surgery."

Harry folded his arms, moving the staff to his opposite shoulders with liquid grace.

"Why would you want to look different."

Hermione took a deep breath. "What's gotten into you today? I thought we were going to practice new means of sight."

Harry's eyes remained fixed somewhere on her right cheek; not looking to the side or wavering in the slightest.

"I just want to understand why you would change your physical appearance." He finally said, and Hermione sighed.

"People do it all the time. For convenience, to blend in, to be popular; all kinds of reasons. I've never liked my front teeth, and my hair is frankly impossible to deal with at times. Magic allows me to change both far easier than any muggle means I've ever used. Why the sudden questions? You've never cared before."

At that, Harry finally looked away, down at his boots, his wild black hair mostly covering the scars that ran across his face.

"I don't know. I… don't understand. I never would have known you changed anything, if Dudley hadn't mentioned it."

Hermione stood and crossed to him, a frown of her own on her face.

"What is this really about?"

Harry was silent a long moment; then, finally, he looked up again, a slow raising of his head, his eyes moving from her toes to her face with leisure.

From any other boy, she would have flushed with embarrassment at such a look; but there was something about the way Harry looked at her, with such reverent admiration, that made her only feel beautiful instead.

"I've never cared because there was no reason to care about something I can not control. But now, I… I want _more._ I want to see you as other people see you; I want to know everything about you, not hear about it from my _cousin._ I... I want to know when you're sad or happy by more than the way your heart pulses in patterns of light." Harry's eyes paused at her face, and Hermione felt something; a rush of energy flooding her veins, more than just his words should have invoked; it was invigorating. He raised a hand, and to her surprise, his cupped her face without fumbling, and his vivid green eyes seemed to run across her cheeks and nose and back again, then down to her mouth. "I want to see your teeth when you smile." He murmured, leaning closer, and in reaction she couldn't help but smile.

He froze, and the energy she was feeling doubled, making her shake in his hold. His eyes flickered back up to hers, and for the first time she met his eyes full-on, and felt her heart race in reaction.

"Y-you can_ see?_" Hermione breathed, and Harry's eyes smiled into hers.

"I've been practicing, with Dudley and my aunt. I didn't want to try on you until I was sure." He said, before a crease formed between his brows. "It's not perfect, not yet. Everything is green, my own soul's color, for one. And details tend to be off… well, with more practice, that can be solved. But placing my magic into people takes a greater toll than placing it into objects, and it has side effects."

"Increased energy." Hermione whispered in wonder, and Harry grinned, his thumb moving across her cheek with soft a caressing motion.

"Yes, and I hypothesize an increased desire for whatever temptations plague a person. My aunt has gained two pounds since I started practicing, she practically shrieked it from the scale in the bathroom. Uncle Vernon leaves for work early, or works on his portfolio. Dudley calls his girlfriend, or goes off to meet her, or talks about her and other…" Harry drifted off, then shook his head, his hands falling away, leaving her skin feeling oddly cold.

Then, he stepped back, and the energy she had been feeling sapped from her.

But her heart still raced, and she found herself leaning towards him.

"...it doesn't matter. I wanted to surprise you." He finished awkwardly. Hermione stepped closer to him, putting them nearly nose to nose.

"It's _brilliant_, Harry! Just what you've been wanting for so long!" She insisted, confused when he did not look as happy as she was. "Aren't you glad you've been able to make it work? And without using levitation charms or noticeable spells?"

Harry nodded his head; but he still hadn't smiled. His eyes flickered up to her face again, focusing between her eyes.

"But I won't be able to use it all the time; it makes me feel drained to use it too often, or too long. Does it matter to you that I sometimes won't be able to see you?"

Hermione huffed in dismissal.

"Honestly, Harry, you _c-can _see me. You can pick me from a crowd of hundreds in hardly a second. You said I'm unique. What does it matter if you can't see the color of my blasted _clothes_, or the shape of my nose. _You can see human souls._ You can study magic on a level I can only dream of; I would give up my own sight in a _s-s-second_ to have a glimpse of what you can see of the world." Harry gaped at her; Hermione poked a stiff finger into his chest for emphasis, gratified when he winced. "And don't go looking like a kicked puppy again because your lady-chasing cousin tells you I cut my hair or pierced my ears or some sort. If I want you to know about it, I'll tell you myself."

Harry rubbed his chest; and with a spike of energy, his eyes roved over her face, lingering on her stern expression.

He slowly smiled; and the sight of it tried to take her breath away.

"I would know if you pierced your ears anyway." He said softly, grinning. "and I would never let you try to trade normal sight for what I have. It's very inconvenient at times." Hermione snorted at that; she doubted anyone but Harry would call his disability simply_ inconvenient_.

Harry took her hand in his and leaned even closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Now, with that cleared up; do you want explore an abandoned wizarding manor with me?"

Hermione blinked at the quick change in subject; then, she smiled with eagerness.

"You don't even have to ask."

* * *

><p>Grimmauld Place was very dark and gloomy to Hermione; she muttered as much to him more than once, while groaning about cobwebs and brandishing her wand to fight off the layers of dust that flew into the air as soon as the old wooden entrance was opened.<p>

To Harry, the place sparkled with centuries worth of magic, every color of the rainbow that he could see, nearly as vibrant as Hogwarts. The green wooden floors were old enough that any movement to their patterns had long since stilled; and the old plaster upon the walls gleamed with pinpricks of purple earth mixed with the many brown threads of animal components.

Ahead, a large portrait dominated the hallway, the unique deep brown signature of expensive silk curtains beside it hinting at the wealth the Black's once possessed.

The portrait held within its painted hues the faint echo of a human pattern, the mimicry of a soul's personality and no-doubt appearance.

He had found wizarding portraits both fascinating and disturbing; that a spell could copy a soul's pattern onto canvas so accurately was one thing; that it might instead be stealing part of one's essence entirely another. He never had been able to find out which was the case; the secrets of the spells that made portraits live were passed down through generations of master painters and apprentices.

He only knew he would never be getting one made of himself.

"Who's there?" A strident voice demanded. "Who's come into my house?"

Hermione startled; then walked forward, Harry following at a slower pace. He found it odd to converse with something that was not alive.

It really seemed pointless.

"Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter. He's inherited this house." Hermione answered, and the portrait let out a shriek.

"_POTTER!? A Potter, inheriting the Black house?! NO! I REFUSE!"_ The portrait sucked in an audible breath. _"KREACHER! Kreacher, come, at once!"_

There was the trademark yellow warning swirl of a house-elf transporting in; then it exploded into light inside the room, sending Hermione jumping sideways in surprise.

The portrait commenced its screaming.

"_KREACHER! REMOVE THESE INTRUDERS FROM THE GROUNDS AT ONCE!"_

Harry saw the house-elf's light growing stronger; and he stepped between it and Hermione, his staff held in front of him with a loose grip, prepared to defend if needed.

"_Be still." _He said, and saw the yellow freeze; and heard a horrible, low groan.

"_KREACHER!" _

The portrait screamed again, and Harry turned on it with a fierce scowl.

"Stop howling this instant or I'll remove you from the wall and shove you in the nearest closet."

The woman in the portrait went silent; then it _growled._

"This house will never be yours, _Potter_. I don't care what my _despicable_, blood-traitor _son_ has done. It belongs to the _family! _Kreacher, do what I say, _at once!"_

The house-elf seemed to be wilting, shrinking closer to the floor.

"Mistress, Kreacher can not. Kreacher has been told to be still."

And the elf seemed entirely horrified that it had to comply. Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Well, he had figured the exploration wouldn't go smoothly. The cloaked aurors following them had certainly not seemed happy when he and Hermione had walked up the steps, their lights flickering in anxious waves of light.

"Don't blame him, he can't disobey a direct order from whomever holds his contract." Harry said sternly to the woman. "Which is a despicable thing to put in a contract, but I doubt you care about that. I own this house and that house-elf, apparently, and there is little you can do about it."

The very light within the portrait seemed to flash; seconds before the screaming startled again, curses so vile and loud that Harry winced.

Then, he stomped his staff hard on the wooden floor and focused on the portraits construction, the green wooden frame which was no doubt elegant, and more importantly the elaborate binding spells that tied the entire thing to the very wall of the house.

It wouldn't be easy to remove_ that _nuisance with conventional magic.

Luckily for his abused ears, Harry wasn't very conventional.

He tightened his grip on the vibrant red of his staff, and willed the pattern within the portrait to change; the horrible echo of a pureblood witch who was no doubt filled with righteous indignation to see a non-blood relation inherit.

He replaced it with a recreation of the simple pattern of the wall behind it.

The house-elf let out a squeak.

"_Mistress!_ Oh, _Mistress! _Where has you _gone!?_" The creature wailed, long spindly yellow beams of light beating at its own head.

Hermione gasped.

"Stop! Stop it, it's alright! _P-p-please!_"

Was the thing really that attached to the tyrant he had just saved them from?

"Stop it." Harry repeated, and was gratified when the elf froze. "I'm very sorry, but that thing was ruining the good impression I had about this place."

The elf muttered under its breath. _"If the Mistress did not like you, Kreacher shall hate yous forever."_

Hermione sniffed.

"I respect your right to have your own opinion, but we did nothing wrong. We never even met Sirius Black. The goblins sent Harry a letter saying he owns this place, and we came to see if there was anything interesting. Like books."

The house-elf seemed to consider.

"Sirius Black was a despicable, traitorous wizard. He did not respect the family."

Hermione crossed one purple arm over another.

"So? That has nothing to do with us. _At all_."

Harry sighed.

"We'll stay out of your way. Or if you wish, I can let you out of your contract with the customary clothes and you can find new work at the House Elf Registry in Diagon Alley…"

Before Harry could continue, the yellow elf began to wail.

"_No! _Kreacher has _always _served the Noble and Most Ancient Black's! Kreacher was born in this house, Kreacher would_ never leave it!_"

Hermione scoffed.

"Well, Harry's not a Black, and if you find us so unbearable as to hate us..."

"_Oh!"_ The elf wailed, and seemed to fall even lower if it was possible. Kneeling? With a flex of energy, Harry confirmed that the house-elf was, indeed, on its knees. "Kreacher has just _remembered! _On the Black family tree, a Potter is there. Kreacher will serve Master Potter, because Master must certainly have Black blood as well. Only, do not send Kreacher away; Kreacher will do _anything."_

"_Like clean?"_ Hermione muttered, which led Harry to gather that the place was reasonably filthy, as befitted a house abandoned for at least a decade.

"Alright." He said with a sigh. "Whatever you want. I just want to check the place out, I promise. Is there anything I need to know?"

_Like, perhaps, if there were more portraits that might bloody his ears?_

"Oh no, Master Potter, nothing at all. Kreacher shall clean and make the house suitable right away for the new Master."

And the yellow collapsed into itself with an audible pop.

Hermione echoed his sigh.

"What next?"

Harry cast her a grin.

"We proceed from the hallway into the great unknown?"

Hermione's wand came into her hand, its dragon heartstring burning with flickers of orange dragon-fire.

"Let's find the library then."

* * *

><p>In a day, they found a library full of cursed books, a living room with no furniture, and two bedrooms that had all manner of annoying magical and muggle pests within.<p>

In a week's time, the house-elf had cleared out the pests, though one closet housed a boggart and a great number of cursed objects had been painstakingly marked with elf magic as a warning.

Kreacher, it seemed, loved his House more than he might dislike his new Master, and would indeed do nearly anything to remain. Harry and Hermione both were polite to the overwrought creature, in the hopes he might stop wavering between muttered curses and overly eager inquiries. Harry, for one, would be scared to spend one night in the house for fear the elf might lose his mind and murder him in his sleep.

With several weekends spent exploring, one bedroom converted to a bare testing room, another a laboratory, removing the spells from dozens of cursed books, and one ornery boggart-pattern taken care of, Hermione commented that Grimmauld Place wasn't 'half bad'.

Harry remembered Dudley's frequent insinuations, and looked away with a flush.

Despite all the time they had spent alone, nothing more than a kiss and a brush of hands had passed between them. Harry had found himself spending far too much time thinking about the pieces of her form that he couldn't really see the details of, even with his increased sight. Even when he tried to turn his thoughts to science and the study of hormones he couldn't succeed in distracting himself; contemplating the potential percentages of testosterone and oestrogen that made ones brain become inordinately focused on female anatomy only led him to think more heavily about what the end-purpose of said hormones was, which made far more than his face heat.

Nor did it stop him from dreaming of warm blue-violet light, and how smooth Hermione's cheek was under his questing fingers, and what else might be warm and soft that he hadn't felt yet.

It was entirely too distracting; and the only thing that could make his brain function properly was to find new puzzles and work to solve them.

* * *

><p>With the summer nearly gone, his aunt insisted he finish his enrollment in Imperial College London.<p>

Harry, with his thoughts on magical fuel and its potential uses, settled on a engineering path that would place him in the perfect spot to continue his research into the relation between electricity and magic.

Then, bored with the thought of waiting nearly two years to even touch a working transformer let alone take one apart, he also entered into classes dealing with medicine and the human body, as eager as ever for some new thought that might further what he knew of the soul and its delicate, yet strong, link to the human body.

Yet without Hermione, the classes seemed to move too slowly, dull and dry compared to his study of magic and the bright structure of Grimmauld Place.

He ignored his peers, all older than him and curious about the fifteen year old in their midst. As soon as classes ended on Friday's, he took the bus directly to Grimmauld Place, which lay only a short ride from the College. There, he continued his studies into science and magic and waited impatiently for Hermione to arrive, her soothing light like a balm.

His uncle didn't seem to mind picking him up later and later on the weekends; his aunt, on the other hand, didn't think it proper that he spent so much time alone with his girlfriend.

Dudley only winked, one large elbow nudging him a bit too forcefully.

Harry jumped from project to project; and as the air grew colder and the months passed, he found himself moving things of his own into the magical rooms of Grimmauld Place. Books in Braille that he used in study, binders of printed notes, occasional extra pairs of clothing for when a test when wrong.

What he couldn't move, he created; a desk, chairs, tables, shelves, glass beakers and metal cabinets. The first floor nearly became dedicated to the exploration of knowledge, the extensive Black library next to his own collection of muggle and magical works, his lab and testing rooms directly across the hall. Only the kitchen was safe; Kreacher insisted upon no wizarding magic in his own domain, though Harry was sorely tempted to test the ever-flowing curse on the kitchen sink and the preservation spells in the pantry. The upper floors were used to begin sorting through the magical artifacts he had bought himself or found in the building or his vaults, all to be studied or experimented upon when he had the time or inclination. One bedroom became his; though he hadn't yet been able to convince his aunt and uncle to let him stay overnight. The attic remained a cluttered room of the countless cast-offs of a wizarding family; and Harry hadn't yet had time to explore it.

Once, he tried to take his curious muggle family inside the wizarding dwelling, only to learn the more unique look of anti-muggle wards. When he finally convinced them to walk through the wards holding his hands his aunt gawked over the antique furnishings while Dudley gaped at Kreacher and his uncle marveled at the proof that, once again, _magic is real and does magical things._

Life seemed to settle easily into familiar patterns; study, test, learn, confirm, retest, study, all done with precise steps and the ever present search for something new.

It didn't matter if the subject was for his muggle college or for his own magical studies; always, he had his mind on future projects, trying to make sense of the two parallels and how they might come together.

With Hermione, he basked in simply sitting in the light of her presence as she rambled on about her current studies and questioned him on his own, speaking of Viola's next paper or the new reading she had been assigned by her tutor in magic.

And every Sunday, she read him aloud anything interesting from the Prophet, which was how he knew the fine details of the failed prison break in Azkaban lead by Crouch, and of the escape of only three or perhaps five Death Eaters with him, who were being hunted down. She told him about the new Ministry laws targeting potential Death Eaters; of the relaxation on the laws governing the use of Veritaserum on government employees under suspicion of terrorist activities, and the increased scrutiny into supposed 'dark magics'. Of the very notable arrest of Lord Malfoy, a member of the Wizengamot itself, and his subsequent sentence to Azkaban for multiple violations of Ministry law, an example that even the most powerful were no longer safe behind bribes and political clout.

He should have known that the wizarding world wouldn't be content to let him simply fall away from it so easily; in every addition, there was some inquiry into his own whereabouts; Witch Weekly even ran a hotline in case any lucky witch spotted him about one magical town or another.

But none yet had placed him in the muggle world.

* * *

><p>To the students of Imperial College London, Harry Potter was an oddity; speculated about often. He was not the youngest to ever attend the college, but he was the first blind one at that age. While the facilities were in place, Braille schoolbooks and advisers for the blind, and each used normally, the boy did not take advantage of a service animal or even a guide, preferring to use a large walking stick that some joked resembled a prop from Lord of the Rings.<p>

And yet, Potter got himself around without help, spurning offers, seemingly lost in his own world. He went from class to class with single-minded purpose, sitting in the front of each classroom, uncanny eyes fixed on the chosen professor as if memorizing every word.

He took no notes; not even on a laptop, where Braille words could be printed later and read. But he always knew the answer, and could be counted on to turn any problem around and show it in a new light. Several of the professors began to rely on questioning the boy to advance discussion on the chosen topic; and more than once found themselves excited by his scope of knowledge.

But Potter would not join the many study groups that offered and even begged. The blind boy was always busy; and though he carried no notebooks and few school books at all, claimed to be working on advanced physics and his own theory of relativity.

The only ones who doubted him where those who had not yet attended class beside him.

* * *

><p>Crouch couldn't find the boy himself; though he spent weeks combing through magical alleys and towns in search. He followed rumors and hints, speculations and absent comments.<p>

When it all proved fruitless, he turned instead to the old news, the many things he missed when captive by his father. The first suggestions that Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived; a Savior, destined to defeat a Dark Lord.

All threads led back to Albus Dumbledore and his Order, threads of a spider's intricate web.

And following those threads, Crouch listened late one night as an Unspeakable moaned into his cups about his job and the things he had seen. With only a few spells, the wizard spoke far more than normally able; and when that information proved even more useful, he led the drunken man out into the dark streets and pinned him against a murky wall, looking into bloodshot eyes that finally began to show fear.

Then, he ripped into the man's mind, past oaths of silence and the spells meant to hide the things seen in one of the Ministry's most secret places; The Department of Mysteries.

The wizard would never be the same again; probably never speak or move or perhaps even breathe, when Crouch was done with him. Crouch hardly cared; only revelled in finally finding some truth.

A prophecy, laid on a certain shelf, given to a wizard with Albus Dumbledore's initials, from a witch who bore also bore the same initials as Hogwart's resident seer.

A prophecy that said it concerned a Dark Lord, and Harry Potter.

Crouch let the man fall to the ground, and apparated away without waiting to see if the man still lived.

* * *

><p>For nearly a year after the Tournament, Albus Dumbledore and his Order searched for the five remaining pieces of Tom Riddle's soul.<p>

Severus Snape told him about the new resurrected sliver; the true force behind the failed prison break, as disfigured as his older self, but far less skilled. Severus had sneered; and Albus, after listening to the description of the ring upon the man's finger, knew that one horcrux could be accounted for in the Gaunt Ring.

The Gaunt House, on the other hand, had recently been burned to the ground, just as the old Riddle mansion he had searched diligently had been burned long ago.

One by one, they searched the old dwellings of Death Eaters. Malfoy Manor was a dead end; but he had long suspected the origin of the disposed Diary had lain there. The Mulcibers, Lestranges, Rosiers, Rowles, Macnairs, Carrows and the Notts. They found a wealth of dark artifacts, some nearly as evil as the horcruxes they searched for. The Ministry followed the tips the Order gave, and the arrests began to pile one on top of another.

But no Cup, or Locket, or Diadem.

After deep thought, Dumbledore figured he had only three more avenues to follow, if luck was with him. Hogwarts itself, which the young Riddle had visited on at least one occasion to apply for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. It was a bold move; just the kind of sly and daring thing the young Riddle thrived on.

The other was in the vaults of those most trusted and pureblooded Death Eaters; the Malfoy, Lestrange, and Nott Vaults.

He discounted the Malfoys; the Dark Lord would not hide two horcruxes with one family. The Nott's seemed unlikely; not the entire family had followed the Dark Lord, only the eldest and most vicious brother.

But the Lestrange's had been fanatic and loyal to a fault.

Getting inside the vault would be truly difficult; when the Lestrange's had died in Azkaban at the wands of the Ministry, all their possessions, with no Heirs left, had been surrendered to the goblins as part of their due.

And the goblins would only trade one wealth for a greater one; Albus sent Bill Weasley, who was used to their dealings, to them to begin the negotiations to gain access to the vault to see if any of the three horcruxes was within.

The last place to look was in Tom Riddle's past; and with that in mind, Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk with his large oval pensive before him, and began to search the memories of his own mind for any clue of where Riddle might have hidden a piece of his soul.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	13. The Broken Red Soul of Voldemort

Harry stood in his testing room, every wall covered in the golden gleam of defensive charms and protective wards, each distinguishable from one another only by the geometric shape of their patterns.

In striking contrast, the floor under his feet had been changed to deep purple stone, a mimicry of Hogwarts that did not hold Her slow pulsing life, only the steady gleam of rock.

There were no lights; when Hermione came, Harry cast charms in the corners for her to see by.

To him, though, the world was never dark.

By his feet, the small bird he had caged chirped indignant tones, angry at the imprisonment. A common pigeon of the London streets, pale blue light, so alive and flickering with the desire for freedom.

Harry gestured his staff towards the wall, and its red light left him alone in the center of the room, his hands empty and bare, only emerald green fingers of light.

He knelt; and with a touch, let the metal cage fall away as his hands trapped the bird in his palms, its wings beating angrily, its clawed feet squirming.

_I'll bring it back_, he reminded himself._ But I have to know._

The pale blue light stilled, as if it heard his intention like an audible song.

Harry closed his eyes, though the vision before him did not dim. He had never needed open eyes to see; if it was his eyes that really saw at all. He rather thought it was his mind; his brain trying to reconcile the fact that he was seeing by letting him control its vision with ocular muscle movements. But lately, more and more, he had learned to widen his sight far past the constraints of human eyesight, nearly to the back of his head.

He flexed his power and Looked, his own emerald green light filling in the details of wings and feathers and a heaving breast as the bird sucked in panicked breaths.

The bird shrieked at the feeling of his power, animals so much more aware than humans of when he regarded them with his new technique, reacting with fear just as the dogs in the park had, and the cats, and the rats in the alleys and the birds in the trees. Knowing something Looked at them that was dangerous and powerful, a great predator of the world.

Harry sighed, and let the energy fade, the pale light of the bird alone except where his emerald fingers caged her.

And with another breath, Harry willed her light to stop, and felt her struggles cease.

Life, gone, with the stopping of a pattern. He Looked at her, and saw her limp neck and claws, wings no longer pressing tightly against his hold.

With a grimace, he made her lights move again, and the bird shrieked in surprised panic. She fluttered wildly against his palms.

Again, Harry stilled her light; again, she fell still.

This time, he waited, falling to the floor on his knees and sitting upright, staring down at the bird in his lap.

He counted, and felt her body cool, the heat leaving her.

He fleetingly wished Hermione was there; she could take temperatures and readings that could only be read, not listened to audibly. But he hadn't wanted her here for this; hadn't wanted to know himself just how far he could go.

When the bird was stiff with death, he made her light Quicken again, and warmth burst from the cold carcass like it was infused with the sun, the light that had grown paler with aging death deepening to its normal blue hues, pulsing, racing with life.

The bird leaped into the air, free, only to flutter wildly at the nearest wall, unable to see in the darkness.

Harry stood, and with a spell caged her again.

Next time, he would try a larger, smarter animal; and he would wait longer before he Quickened them again.

He had to know, for sure, just how far the boundaries could be pushed.

After all, the magical world claimed true Necromancy was impossible; inferi did not possess souls, zombies had no sentient brain, and Skeletons no skin or will of their own. All only did the bidding of the dark witch or wizard who created them. The dead could not come back to life, not as they once were. Resurrection was not possible by any law of magic.

But in Surrey, he had made a dead tree live; and now in Grimmauld Place, he had killed a pigeon and brought it back.

And in time, he would need to learn if it was only plants and animals whose patterns could be Quickened.

* * *

><p>When Crouch told Riddle of the potential prophecy, it was in low tones of excitement.<p>

The Death Eater explained how it all could have happened; how a prophecy could have led to his Master's defeat, how it must speak of Harry Potter as a catalyst that would throw apart all of his plans.

How Voldemort must have learned of the prophecy, no doubt by Dumbledore's taunts, and been led to kill a baby on his own without proper plans in place to destroy him.

"It was a trap; yet impossible to resist. And if you yourself can _not _kill him, my Lord, then you must make his death come about in some other way. Send assassins; or raise an army. Once he is dead, your rise should go unimpeded."

Tom Riddle knew the reasoning was not sound; some part of him, the analytical, bitter part, was angry that it was not.

But he _wanted _to believe it; wanted to blame a _boy_ for why everything was not falling into place as it should, for why with greater numbers and skills and values his former army had failed. For why most of his followers were dead, and why no new ones would come to him. Dead or cowards or both.

"I have no more money to hire assassins or raise any significant force." Riddle said finally, sparing a thought for lost opportunities and the fact that those of his that had died had also been the most wealthy.

"Then we _make_ them, My Lord." Crouch hissed in fervent tones, the snake on his cheek hissing in syncing counterpart. "We _create_ them."

And Tom Riddle reluctantly began to smile.

_He certainly had few better ideas._

* * *

><p>Kreacher was sensible; his new Master was odd, for certain, but not harsh or unforgiving.<p>

Kreacher could live with Master Potter as Head of House Black.

He did not seem to mind dirty floors or hallways, though his witch friend did. He barely seemed to taste the food placed in front of him; and never suggested a favorite dish or expressed a dislike of any particular food. Master Potter would wander in after muggle schooling and toss a bag into the same chair in his office and disappear for hours into his _'lab_', a room of odd devices Kreacher had never seen.

He watched Master Potter frequently, as the Master worked magics or sat back in a long chair to listen to a book read aloud.

Master Potter was blind; but not in any way Kreacher could fathom. Kreacher did not like those green eyes on him, disliked even more the spike of energy that came from the Master on occasion, speeding his heart and making him have a marked desire to clean vigorously the cluttered attic or dusty closet.

Kreacher was an old elf, for such a large house, though he would never admit it. His bones grew weary after too much magic, his skin tight and leathery. But when the Master's eyes gleamed brighter and the energy filled him, Kreacher nearly felt like a young elf in his prime with his first contract, ready to take on a manor full of Irish pixies and poltergeists.

And worse, so much worse, when the Master's gaze moved away, Kreacher felt bereft, the loss keener with the reminder of how far he had fallen.

It was enough to make an old elf seek the Look; seek out the Master's approval, if only for a moment, only for a second in time.

He loved and hated that desire with equal fervor; hated that it came from someone the Mistress had so despised before the Master did the impossible and displaced her against house-elf magic, which should have prevailed. And yet he loved being useful again, a good elf, with a Family to serve and a House to set to rights.

So, confused, Kreacher did what he needed to do; he dug out an old reminder, a failed job, and placed it where the Master might Look upon it, and waited to see what might happen.

And he hoped, if he was right, that the Master would Look on him, too.

* * *

><p>Harry had made a point of telling the house-elf that nothing was to be moved. Growing up, moving furniture was his worst adversary; the casual displacement of a chair enough to send him to the ground, or a dropped plastic toy to stab his unknowing foot.<p>

Now, even with his increased sight, moving things bothered him. He couldn't maintain Looking for more than minutes at a time without growing increasingly tired, so he liked his home ground to be stable and organized; everything in its own place. He figured he might be slightly obsessive-compulsive; though movement made him more angry than nervous or distraught.

He knew the location of everything in Grimmauld Place, with the only exception being the still cluttered attic and Kreachers own realm off the kitchen pantry.

So when he stepped into the hallway from the rainy streets, shrugging off his damp cloak and hanging up his bag to dry, he knew something was not right.

It didn't hit him at first; the brown and purple light of the plastered walls nearly hid that all-too-familiar pattern that he had seen before.

It made no _sense_; he had been at Grimmauld Place only the day before; there was no wooden table against the wall where the screaming portrait once had been; and definitely no bloody red soul centered upon it like a macabre offering.

Harry hissed, his hand tightening on his staff in reaction.

"_Kreacher."_

The yellow came; and Harry Looked upon the elf as it fell to the ground at his feet and trembled, the green of his magic covering its natural yellow light and highlighting every feature in keen detail, from the flopping overly large ears to his large hairy bare feet.

"_Master,_ Kreacher _sorry,_ Master,_ forgive Kreacher_..."

The thing began to beg, and Harry knew the beast had somehow placed a sliver of Voldemort's soul, the blasted wizard he had hoped was _dead,_ upon a table in his own_ house._

"Is this a trap?" Harry asked, inanely, then shook his head.

If it was, the house-elf would not tell him so. Hadn't it vowed to hate him forever at some point?

"_NO!"_ Kreacher wailed. "Kreacher only wants to show the Master something Kreacher _found.._"

Harry's lip curled.

"Don't _lie_ to me."

The house-elf's mouth snapped shut, its teeth clicking. He saw its ears drop farther, long claws digging into the wood under its feet as it whispered.

"Kreacher was given the locket from Master Regulus, before Master Regulus died. Kreacher was to destroy it, but could not. Kreacher punished himself by not cleaning the House for ten years, one year for every time Kreacher tried and_ failed_… then, Kreacher decided to not ever clean _again._"

Harry blinked; a useless reaction to surprise, as reactions go.

He supposed, to a house-elf,_ not_ cleaning _would_ be punishment, but…

"Regulus Black? The_ Death Eater?_"

Kreacher trembled again; and the longer Harry Looked at him, the more the elf seemed to sink into the floor, his hands now limp at his sides.

"_Yes."_ Kreacher whispered, and Harry frowned, casting a glance at the glimmering red pattern laying docilely ahead.

"Why would a Death Eater by trying to kill part of Lord Voldemort?"

_And more importantly, this would be three so far. How many bloody times was that blasted dark lord going to be popping up in his life?!_

Kreacher raised his palms up towards him.

"Kreacher does not know, _please_, Master. Kreacher does not _know._"

Harry sighed.

"It's fine, don't worry about it. If you couldn't kill it, no doubt Regulus couldn't either, and I'm sure he tried. The blasted snake was the same way."

Or at least, the charms upon it had been hard to break through. Killing it, not so much.

_Still._

"Get up, already." Harry snapped, and was pleased when Kreacher leapt spryly to his feet, wringing his hands together, stepping far too close for comfort.

Harry moved down the hall towards the red pattern, and heard its faint whisper not with his ears, but inside his mind.

_I'm beautiful… captivating… put me on, put me on…_

Harry didn't think the bloody red light of Voldemort's soul pattern was either beautiful or captivating in the least. He saw a glimmer of metal underneath the red, and supposed whatever object the soul inhabited might be pretty if seen with more usual eyes.

But to him, the thought of a human soul inside a metal shell was disturbing. Could it _do _anything at all? The snake had seemed to act independent of the soul it hosted; but the weak Voldemort piece that had been Kissed had been wholly human, if monstrous.

Harry Looked closer, observing a closed locket, then finally reached out and held it in his hand, the metal far colder than it should be.

The hiss inside his mind came louder, but he pushed it away with disgruntled huff.

"Master? Can yous destroy it?" Kreacher asked tentatively, and Harry turned to Look back at the house-elf, who straightened under his eyes like a soldier coming to attention.

"Yes." Harry mused softly, then ran his gaze over the deep red pattern. "I will. When I'm through with it."

He had dreaded finding a human soul to practice upon; but lo and behold, a sliver of one had just found itself within his grasp.

Surely a little experimentation on a dark lord would be forgiven.

After all, the wizard had mutilated his _own _soul _first._

* * *

><p>Over the last months, Harry had learned enough about Quickening from his tests on animals to know most of its limitations.<p>

There was one.

If the body had decayed past a set point, then the Quickening would not take; first, the body had to be repaired, then the life within could flourish again instead of dying as quickly as it reanimated.

With plants, it was much simpler; any plant life could be Quickened and bud with new growth; but to repair an entire dead branch, then the branch would need to be set to a state where it could grow naturally; a root system, for one, or else like any plucked flower the life would slowly dim and die once again.

All living things were either growing or dying; and he discovered quickly that young life beat faster than old life, which had already began to slow.

And if he took a old animal and made its life fast, the old animal's body weakened much more quickly than it should, its body unable to handle the youth of its own heart.

But he could change an old animal pattern into a new one, and Quicken it at a younger speed.

The possibilities for eternal youth did not escape him; but the thought of having to kill something, over and over, only to bring it back to life younger did not appeal to him. And would the new life, reset into a younger pattern, even hold any of its older memories? Was there any point in living forever if you would not even know you _were?_

_How had the Philosophers Stone worked? _Flamel had managed it, somehow. Perhaps the Stone had only affected the body and not the soul at all.

But no matter how he tried it, he could not make the pattern younger without also speeding up the life within.

But that was all with animals and plants; human life had yet another layer over life and body pattern both.

A soul.

Every single person Harry had met had their own unique colors and shades and patterns; not like the generic brown of all cats and blues of all birds.

And without that soul, every human body was a white shell, empty of color.

The body pattern and the soul pattern, and within the life that made them live.

Voldemort's soul sliver was dark red infused with black, a bloody speck of humanity tainted with dark magic. Within the locket that it inhabited, Harry knew it was aware of him; it tried to speak to him again and again, different tactics each time, cajoling and threatening in turn.

That, at least, made sense with his other theories; that souls were aware of where they were, even when outside of a human body's pattern. Their soul remained the same and aware of itself; and this Locket-Voldemort was no different.

Harry killed it, and Quickened it, and killed it again; he found that he had to Quicken it quickly, or just like the snake it began to fade and go away nearly immediately to wherever human souls went, and he wasn't sure he could bring it back again.

Calling it the afterlife seemed overly romantic; a higher state of consciousness sounded more scientific, though he had no proof souls were conscious there.

_Death. _

What_ was_ death, for the human soul? _Where did the blasted things go?! _The mystery nagged at him like a splinter under his skin, worse than the constant failures to make a computer or t.v. work in Grimmauld Place.

So when he got tired of killing Voldemort, he decided instead to try something a bit different.

The wizard was pretty much dead anyway, and he doubted the bodiless thing could feel pain; it had no nerves, after all, or skin or even a brain. Just a conscience trapped in cold, cursed metal. It was no different than performing exploratory surgery on a cadaver to take the soul pattern apart and see exactly what parts were red and which were black; what made it hiss and what made it laugh. What made it dark and what made it light, what made its pattern unique and what would happen if he changed the pattern even slightly.

He was pretty sure Hermione still wouldn't approve of his logic, though.

* * *

><p>Hermione did not know what secret Harry was keeping, but she knew he had one.<p>

She had expected him to more busy once classes started; but during the winter break, he had remained distant, more often than not spending long hours at Grimmauld Place without inviting her along as he normally did.

More than once she called the Dursley house to find him gone; and each time, she felt remotely embarrassed that she was the last to learn his whereabouts. Usually, it was the other way around.

But whatever project he was working on he didn't share.

She idly questioned the house-elf, and found even Kreacher strangely reluctant to complain about his Master, going oddly pale at her words and finding some task to busy himself with.

_Fear?_ What had Harry done _now?_

When school started up again, she let her worries slide; Harry was still working with her on two other projects, after all, both of which were sufficiently complicated that she didn't know how he had any spare time at all.

But then, one day on a whim as she visited, she had the random urge to peek into the test room on her way to the Black Library, where she was to meet Harry.

And her hand on the knob found it locked and warded tight, beyond even the unlocking charms ability to open.

Her eyes narrowed at the brass knob; then, she turned on her heel and marched to the library.

_Enough was enough._

* * *

><p>"What are you hiding?"<p>

Hermione's angry voice brought his head up around from the magical diagram he was observing, its complicated spell weaving a design to elegantly hide the books behind its curtain by tricking the eyes into thinking the curtains hid a dusty window.

Dust was an odd thing; flickers of brown and white, dead skin and living organisms so small their patterns were nearly indistinguishable from the lights around them.

"Harry_, I'm talking to you."_

She grumbled, and he shook his head and focused with a frown.

"What's wrong?"

She stomped closer and flung her light into a chair with a toss of wild curling hair.

"You won't tell me what you're working on, and you've locked the door to your testing room. You've never done either before."

Harry's heart sank; he much doubted she would care to know that he had learned, painfully, that when a core thread of personality in a pattern was taken out, the entire construct collapsed with shrieks that told him the soul in question was entirely too aware of what he had just done to it.

He had been able to rebuild Voldemorts broken soul from memory; a process that had taken four entire afternoons of tight focus, and created another hypothesis.

If he was familiar enough with a soul _before_ it was broken, it was possible he could in fact fix the break that marred it. If he knew a soul well enough, it was possible that he might be able to create it again from nothing but light; and most intriguing of all, if he could just figure out _exactly what made a soul a_ _soul_… he might be able to create an entirely _new_ soul pattern.

But before either of the last two could ever happen, he would have to do much more study on soul patterns in person, not to mention attempt to catalogue what made certain personalities act in certain ways, determine how much soul patterns changed over time, and figure out why some souls broke when others did not.

It would take a lifetime to achieve, if even_ that _was enough time.

"It's not that you have a secret." Hermione finally said softly, when Harry did not speak. "It's just that you've never kept them from _me_."

Harry Looked at her, his magic flexing like an idle cat would stretch its paws out in the sun. He saw the way her face creased with concern, anger fading to worry; green eyes and skin like a mask over her own inner light as his magic strove to show him the details he had failed to see before.

She blinked and shivered, and he saw goosebumps rise on her arms.

From his one trip to Diagon Alley since he perfected his new technique, he had learned that magical people and creatures knew when he Looked at them as their muggle relatives did not; something magical inside them recognizing the influx of foreign magic like one would feel the touch of strange hands at the nape of ones neck.

And mostly, they either loved or hated the sensation.

Harry let the sight fall away, and sighed.

"I have another portion of Voldemort's soul. I've been using it to test my hypotheses about my abilities that we discussed previously after Viola's paper on the laws of transfiguration."

Hermione sucked in a breath and held it, her blue-violet light pulsing with agitation.

Then she let it out and spoke swiftly.

"_I can't believe you didn't tell me_. How long have you had it?"

Harry lifted his chin.

"Since just before winter break. I didn't think you would want to be part of the tests."

Hermione shot to her feet and began to pace with jerking flashes of light that his eyes struggled to follow, her hands motioning in gestures he could not comprehend as she spoke.

"_V-v-voldemort's soul! Of course I would want to k-k-know!_ And if the tests were too much for me to handle, I would _l-leave!_ I'm not some fainting _v-violet_ you have to protect, or _worse_, hide yourself from! I can handle it if you can manipulate soul matter! I can handle it if you can kill people with a flick of your wrist, because guess what, _Harry B-b-blind Potter,_ I can_ too!_ Maybe not in the same _way,_ but magic makes it entirely too easy. And if you can bring things back to _life_, well, I want to _kn-n-now! _We've already violated enough magical laws already, you think this one would bother me forever? I can get over the existence of dragons and space extension charms and love potions and barbaric house-elf registries, but not your abilities?"

She whirled and spun like a top, angry light pulsing with streaks he hadn't seen since his entrance into the Triwizard Tournament.

This time, it was definitely himself she was angry at.

"_And."_ Her voice dropped to deadly whisper. "_I've been your f-f-friend for years._ I've never been scared or intimidated by your abilities. They might worry me at times, I might be scared_ f-for _you if you are able to pull of some of these stunts and it becomes _known_…" She stopped and seemed to turn away.

Harry didn't risk Looking to see what her expression was; he still wasn't sure if she cared for his energy running through her, and now was definitely not the time to ask or test it if she didn't.

"Are you going to destroy it?" She asked softly, and Harry answered her quickly.

"Yes. I've about gotten what I can from it anyway."

She made some sound in her throat.

"Well, good. I'd like to see your notes."

Harry grimaced. She had learned Braille since their friendship began, finding it useful. But that wouldn't help this time.

"I haven't typed any of them. With the subject matter… I didn't think it prudent."

"Right." She murmured. "You're right." She stepped closer to him. "I'd l-l-like you to tell me what you've learned."

It wasn't a demand, but there was some note in her voice he couldn't decipher; Harry nodded immediately. He had already made one mistake, and now was the time to recover. "Alright. I can tell you now..."

"No." She said, and began to move towards the door. "I'm _s-s-still_ too upset to listen. I… _y-y-you_… that is, I'm _n-n-not _happy that you didn't _t-t-trust_ me."

Harry had never really gotten into a serious fight with her before; statistically, he knew he was due for one. Still, he hadn't ever thought she would be as upset as she was over _this_.

"I do trust you. I just thought I would... make things easier."

She sniffed, and to his horror he had the deep suspicion she was about to cry. The thought brought him to his feet, but she was already stepping through the door.

"It's fine. I'll be_ b-b-back t-t-tomorrow._"

And she was gone.

Harry sunk back down into his chair, feeling hollow.

Then he frowned fiercely and rose again.

He absolutely refused to let her think for a minute that he ever intended to hurt her feelings.

He grabbed his staff and stomped to the door, casting a glare towards the golden test room on his way past.

* * *

><p>Harry explained his dilemma with as sparse details as he could manage to his aunt; she told him to send flowers and patted him on the head like he was cute.<p>

Harry told Dudley, and his cousin suggested flowers _and_ chocolate.

His uncle, on the drive to the Grangers, suggested a great deal of groveling instead.

Harry opted for all three, but not necessarily at the same time.

He created the flowers from wooden splinters and placed them inside an enchanted crystal-pattern, conjuring them again and again until Dudley had sworn on his honor as a Dursley that they were _'some blooming shade between blue and fancy purple'_. The chocolate was donated by his aunt, who had enough frozen cookie dough to last them through an apocalypse.

And by the time Harry and his uncle arrived at the modest brownstone the Grangers resided in, Harry knew it was late, far past the time for supper.

He left his uncle in the car, and ascended the steps. When he rang the bell, Mrs. Granger opened the door with a puzzled frown.

"Harry? Is something wrong?"

He only shook his head, and held out the objects in his hand.

"Give these to Hermione?"

Mrs. Granger gently took both crystal and plate, speaking with a confused tone.

"Don't you want to come inside? Hermione's just up the stairs…"

"No, that's alright." He clenched one fist around his staff. "I'm seeing her tomorrow. Thanks."

And with a nervous tilt to his head, he turned and began to descend the steps, Looking carefully to see the concrete steps from the shadows in his vision.

"Okay…"

Her voice drifted down to him, before he heard the door close.

Without looking back at the house, he slid inside his uncle's automobile, and they drove away.

* * *

><p>Hermione knew she was being foolish. She had overreacted, certainly.<p>

_But he didn't tell me he had a piece of Voldemort's soul inside his house!_

That was extreme; and he had done it because he thought she would disapprove of experimenting on it? Or that she would be disturbed that he_ could?_

She should have stayed and talked to him. But she had had the oddest desire to cry, though whether from frustration or surprise or hurt she herself hadn't even been certain.

And _that _would have been embarrassing.

She had to just get away for a moment and think things through; and that's exactly what she had done for the last few hours.

_Think._

And now, she nearly felt _she_ should apologize to _him,_ which barely made any sense at _all!_

He wasn't obligated to tell her everything just because he was her boyfriend; though, _still,_ a soul fragment of the most evil dark lord in _decades_….

A knock at the door broke her from her spiraling thoughts. Her mum poked her head through, frowning.

"Hermione, honey? Harry was just here…"

"_H-here?" _She yelped, floundering off her bed, but her mother stepped further inside, shaking her head, something tucked in her arms.

"He _was,_ honey. He wanted me to give these to you. Did you two have a tiff?"

Hermione stiffened.

"What makes you say that?"

Her mother grinned impishly and lifted her hands.

"Chocolate and flowers, mostly, though I must say your father never managed to carry off the flower portion so well… what a beautiful color!"

Hermione looked down as her mother gently placed a large plate of Petunia Dursley's signature homemade cookies on her desk, followed by what had to be a creation of Harry's.

The triangular prism glowed with a soft inner light; illuminating the blooms trapped within, a single large hyacinth blossom that had its many smaller blooms ranging from deep violet external petals to piercing inner blue.

A hyacinth, so similar to the Latin word for a deep shade of blue. The only word closer to her own soul's shade was...

"What do the symbols mean?"

Her mother inquired, and Hermione blinked, looking below the blossom to what was inscribed beneath in the specific braille-code used for Latin words.

She gently ran her fingers across the raised dots, though her eyes told her already what it said.

_Pretiosum, Lux Mea, et Violaceus_

Precious, light of mine, in blue-violet.

_My precious blue-violet light._

Hermione's eyes, to her infinite frustration, began to water again. With a growl, she swiped her hand across her face and then turned to her mother defiantly.

"Can you drive me to Harry's house?"

* * *

><p>Later, they would be teased unmercifully from both families for the drama that made Mr. Dursley drive all the way across town to the Granger house to deliver a present, only for Mrs. Granger to drive Hermione back to the Dursley house in the middle of the night to thank Harry for it.<p>

But at the time, Mrs. Granger only thought it unbearably sweet, while Mr. Dursley grumbled half-heartedly while remembering his own days of courting the elder hot-tempered Evans girl.

He had apologized far more than once himself.

Hermione darted across the perfectly manicured lawn, but Harry had seen her pattern from inside the house and opened the door before she could step onto the small porch alcove.

She hesitated a second when his eyes met hers, shivering as his energy moved through her and he Looked down at her with hesitant eyes of his own.

Then, she sprang into his hastily opened arms, and with a loudly stuttered _'S-s-sorry'_, squeezed him tight and refused to cry,_ again._

And Harry returned her hug with warm arms, smiling against her hair.

"I rather thought that was my line."

Hermione laughed wetly; then softly punched his shoulder as she leaned back to look up at him.

"I overreacted, but you were out of line. Agree we're mutually sorry and move on?"

Harry grinned.

"Reciprocated Despondency?"

Hermione giggled. "Very downcast and disheartened."

Harry laughed; then leaned his forehead softly against hers.

"Want to watch me slay a dark lord tomorrow?"

Hermione smiled up at him, the emerald depths of his gaze glowing softly as he Looked into her eyes.

"Completely, utterly, and entirely certain I'll be thrilled to."

Harry squeezed her arms in relief.

"It's a date."

* * *

><p>In early summer, on a bright and sunny day, Hermione Granger entered the test room in Grimmauld Place, the bare stone floor and plain walls lit only by an absently cast Lumos charm in one corner.<p>

And Harry placed into the air a silver locket and held it there with his power, the air thick with energy as he manipulated a soul and pulled something unfathomable from the depths of engraved metal, something that looked both like a black vortex and a bright light to her eyes, all at the same time.

It whispered to her of her worst fears and her greatest desires in the bare instant she stood, frozen, to the side.

Then Harry Potter closed his fist and the light shadow simply died, no scream, no flash, nothing that signaled that a great evil had left the world.

Later, Harry would tell her he saw the red of its broken pattern fade away to the _other_ place; leaving behind only a metal locket.

But all she saw was her best friend standing in his own sphere of power that hazed the air, a silver locket hovering above his fingertips, a satisfied smile on a face that was stark with magical energy.

And it truly hit her that she was standing not just beside a genius wizard and a brilliant scientist; but a very, very powerful sorcerer.

* * *

><p>In six months time, Albus Dumbledore had made so little progress that even his own patience was wearing thin.<p>

Severus Snape reported that the Tom Riddle from the Ring had retreated, hiding in some warded area where his spy could not reach him, licking his wounds and planning, giving Albus' Order precious time to find and destroy what they could of his soul pieces.

His professors had begun searching all of Hogwarts that they could; even going so far as to confiscate the Marauders Map and its secret from the Weasley twins, exploring every passageway and hidden alcove. But as the term ended, no horcrux had yet been found.

Dumbledore's pensieve had proven useful for storing memories; but with a normal term as Headmaster at Hogwarts and his duties as Chief Warlock over a very anxious and fretful Wizengamot, time spent reliving the past had not been frequent enough for him to make much headway into places Tom Riddle might have hidden something as precious as a soul.

His guess about the Lestrange vault had indeed been correct; the Hufflepuff Cup and its resident horcrux were indeed inside.

But the goblins were taciturn and unhelpful, sneering at every offer of mere gold or property or jewels.

They wanted goblin artifacts; and more specifically, they wanted the Sword of Gryffindor, which they knew he now had in his possession after its loss for more than a century.

Dumbledore wouldn't have minded much giving them the sword; it was enchanted to return to the next person who needed it to defend the school, an enchantment the goblins could never break on their own.

What he did not like was that they also wanted an extravagant amount of gold, jewels, and property along with it.

When he finally settled on an amount, the goblins insisted on running tests upon the Sword to ensure it was not a forgery, a blatant insult to Albus' own honor, and counted each individual galleon and inspected every single priceless jewel offered from the Dumbledore vault, a process that took another entire week when certain jewels were deemed 'unworthy'.

The short creatures smirked the entire time with their sharp teeth, but when Albus finally held the Cup in his hands, he knew it was worth it.

The horcrux reeked of dark magic and curses of protection, and was undoubtedly a portion of Voldemort's soul.

Destroying the horcrux was another matter entirely, however, for without the Sword that he suspected would have sliced the Cup into pieces, freeing the protected soul to be destroyed, there was only one other force that could destroy things charmed to be indestructible.

Fiendfyre, sentient flame infused with dark magic, whose use was regulated strictly by the Ministry.

_Well, what the Ministry doesn't know won't hurt them,_ Albus Dumbledore thought merrily, and set off to find a private place to kill what should have died long ago.

* * *

><p>"More corpses, my Lord."<p>

Tom Riddle turned back from the cave in the Scotland mountains, looking over the three dead bodies flung onto the rock.

Muggles, wizards, witches, all the same in death, all empty husks able to be reanimated into soulless puppets.

He had always liked the idea of inferi; creatures of the dark, following his every whim. It appears in his own future he had made his dreams come true. Crouch claimed he had made an entire army of the fell monsters, though where he had hidden them away was a mystery.

Now, he made more; from homeless muggles and old, frail men and and women who would simply disappear, to witches and wizards drunk in bars or traveling alone.

Dozens; then_ hundreds_. An army, impervious to pain and hunger, immune to nearly everything that could harm normal humans, each individual stronger than ten men. Only weak to the power of flame and daylight.

Tom Riddle figured he would attack by night; and even if Potter managed to cast a flame spell on several dozen, there was no conceivable way for him to destroy an entire army of the puppets from every direction.

He would be waiting with them; he, and all that was left that followed him, Crouch, the two Carrows, Yaxley, Jugson and Avery.

If somehow the inferi failed, his Death Eaters would not.

And with Potter dead and the prophecy obsolete, he would be free of any predictions there might be of his own downfall; free to begin infiltrating the Ministry once again, seeking whatever crack there was in its defense.

Lord Voldemort would be a feared name once more.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	14. The White of Flame and Inferius

_**Brief AN:**__ Sorry for the late update in our promised schedule; decided to add about 7k to this chapter; let's just call it bonus content. Enjoy a chapter twice its normal length! :P_

* * *

><p>Rufus Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes at the venerable, and extremely innocent looking, elderly wizard.<p>

"We find significant evidence of substantial use of fiendfyre only ten kilometers from Hogwarts, and you expect us to believe you _don't know anything about it?_"

Albus Dumbledore folded his arms.

"Some of the damage you speak of was done quite a few months ago. I can only assume some students were experimenting."

Rufus flung his hands into the air.

"_Experimenting?_ With _dark magic?_ And what of the recent damage? Students sneaking _back into school _to practice said dark magic?!"

Dumbledore sighed deeply.

"I cannot say, Minister. I do not monitor the grounds outside Hogwarts and Hogsmeade at all hours of every day. I _do_ have important duties."

Rufus slapped one palm down on his desk.

"_Fine_. But if I find one more instance of evidence of the use of dark magic in that area I will be sending in a team of aurors to investigate. There are still Death Eaters out there, and rumors of them raising some sort of force. Over a dozen reports of witches and wizards disappearing on their own property, then several more failed attempts by masked Death Eaters to apprehend them. The Ministry has been forced to place a warning in the Daily Prophet."

Dumbledore clasped his hands in his lap.

"I read the statement myself. The information is alarming. Have you any leads?"

Rufus resisted the desire to snarl; Albus Dumbledore, for all that he tried to look innocent and grandfatherly, held significant power behind him. It wouldn't do to rail at the man like his predecessor, and find himself kicked from office months later.

"They're in Scotland, in the wilderness. Four or five Death Eaters, no doubt led by Crouch Jr."

"Close to Hogwarts?" Dumbledore raised a brow, and Rufus shook his head.

"No, I don't think so." His eyes narrowed. "And I doubt they were flinging Fiendfyre about, either, but I'm leaving no stone unturned. I have groups scouring the mountains. It's only a matter of time before we find them."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

"I wish you luck, Minister."

Rufus sat back in his chair, eyes drawn to the large map of the country on his wall, the parchment marked with multiple lines drawn in red and blue.

"_I don't believe in luck."_

* * *

><p>Harry leaned back into the sofa cushions, one arm tossed around Hermione's shoulders as she rested against him, a slim book of tan light cradled in her hands as she read aloud.<p>

The Grangers had thrown him a birthday party at their house; he was now sixteen years old.

He absently listened to the comforting rise and fall of Hermione's voice as she read about the life of Albert Einstein, a renowned physicist who had invented the theory that Harry hoped to reconcile with magic. A book given to him by Dudley, who saw the word physics on the front and assumed Harry would find it interesting. Harry hadn't had the heart to tell the other boy he already knew nearly everything there was available to know about Einstein, from biographies three times the size of the one Hermione read from.

It was certainly still nice to listen to Hermione read, her familiar soft tones rising and falling, while the rest of his and Hermione's families talked in laughing tones to one another around the large dining room table and scattered living room chairs. Mrs. Granger had his aunt off in the corner with two of Hermione's aunts, all discussing something in whispered tones. His uncle and one of Hermione's uncles were talking about the latest renovations to their favorite golf course, while Hermione's dad and her other uncle ranted about automobile designs and car racing tracks, with Mr. Granger far preferring Formula One while the uncle thought anything other than dirt tracks were pretentious and overly driven by endorsement deals.

Dudley sat with three of Hermione's cousins, all four boys concentrating on the widescreen t.v. and the multiplayer shooting game, frequently hissing curses at one another one second and laughingly joking the next.

Hermione's only other cousin, an older girl called Jessica, sat alone by the window, a faint lavender pattern that had once been pristine now marred by ugly cracks, threatening to break.

Something was going wrong with her; though earlier Hermione insisted she had heard nothing off regarding her oldest cousin. Harry could see the truth; something had hurt her soul enough that the strain was making it weaken and fray. No doubt worse because she was apparently keeping it quiet.

He narrowed his eyes and focused on the swirl of pulsing lights by the window, extending his power for the first time that evening in an idle flex to Look.

Jessica was tall; tall and thin, skin tightly covering little muscle and barely any fat, her skeleton strong without weaknesses. Perhaps too thin; Harry was still new to observing the human bodies around him, and he sometimes saw deeper than he wished, beneath clothes and flesh to the hidden organs underneath. She was dressed in long pants and a sweater, odd choices for July. Her arms were crossed across her stomach, sitting hunched over on the window seat.

As he Looked, she shivered and held herself tighter; not the average response to the touch of his magic in a muggle.

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly, and he became aware that many of the conversations in the room had stopped.

An unwelcome side effect to his Look; it often spread out without his notice, touching on the others in a room with brushes of his power. As he had focused on Jessica, it had managed to cover most of the room with traces of emerald magic like odd splashes of paint by a careless artist.

Harry withdrew it immediately, the natural colors of things instantly shining back through, the shadowy carpet floor with its green wooden tables and brown leather chairs.

And the hues of people in it that he distinctly felt were looking at him.

After the last few months of experimentation with his vision, all of the Dursley knew what the sensation of the Look was, the rising energy and enthusiasm; but while Mr. and Mrs. Granger knew something of it and magic both, Hermione's uncles and their families knew nothing of either.

_Blast it._

Hermione's hand squeezed his; and Harry turned his face into her hair and whispered quickly in her ear.

"Something is wrong with Jess; she's breaking, even as we speak."

Conversations were haltingly starting back up again; the Grangers shaking off the odd sensation as perhaps a temporary malfunction in the AC; and the odd way the Potter teen had stared at their Jess written off as a blind boy simply not knowing where he was looking. And surely his eyes had not been glowing; just a trick of the light.

The Dursleys knew better; his aunt's voice had risen a bit too high in a laugh not quite real as she tried to draw attention back to herself and off of her nephew's odd behavior.

Hermione leaned closer to him.

"You're sure? Is that all you know?"

Harry sighed.

"Yes. Her body is healthy in every way I can see, only her soul pattern seems affected."

Hermione breathed softly against him, quiet as her mind raced in thought, before she seemed to come to some conclusion.

"I'll be right back."

With that, she pulled away and stood, moving towards Jess with purposeful intent.

And soon after she reached her, Harry saw one crack widen and begin to split. The girl's voice rose, audible even where he sat across the room.

"_...nothing wrong with me!"_

"Jessica." Her dad said sternly, his voice a mixture of embarrassed and confused at the near-yell.

Another crack; the girl was nearly panting with emotion.

"Jessica?" Her mother, now, questioning, pale light so similar to her daughters moving closer, parents drawing into a protective circle though they had no idea what was going on.

Everyone was watching now; Harry saw Hermione's light dim and waver in uncertainty. He found himself standing, moving closer with careful movements, no guidance with his staff far away by the door.

Jessica's pillar of light stomped one foot.

"What is _wrong _with you guys? I _told _you to leave me _alone!_ I didn't want to come to this s_tupid _party anyway! _Just leave me alone!_"

Her voice rose to a new height; and to his dismay Harry saw from up close that the damage was more extensive than he had thought; pale purple swirls turning jagged and sharp and beginning to pull apart.

He lost the thread of conversation; conscious only of that light, crumbling before his very eyes, a delayed reaction from some horrible blow in the past few days, on its way to looking like Luna's and the few muggles he had seen in the college hallways that had the pattern of their consciousness broken and scarred over.

Previously, he had thought such breaks must come about from great trauma; the death of a loved one in some horrible manner, a life-threatening illness, the shock of war. Some books even said that using dark magic would fracture ones soul; the Killing Curse in particular.

But what could have happened to Jessica Granger, a nineteen year old girl in college herself, loving parents, good grades…

"_Jessica!_ Stop that right now!" Steven Granger's voice was rough with embarrassment and growing anger. "That is_ no_ way to treat your cousin or your aunt and uncle!"

Even as Jessica's words grew angrier and louder, lashing out in return at her father, Harry saw her light fading in response to some terrible emotion, at odds with how anger normally effected the soul.

"_Stop."_ Harry said abruptly; and heard the unintended whip of power in his voice. The growing argument halted; Jessica sucked in a large breath, no doubt to turn her sharp tongue on him for interrupting her.

Harry stepped closer, passing a frozen Hermione, to stand closer to Jessica than was probably proper. She shrank back in unconscious reaction.

"You're doing more harm than good." He said simply, speaking to both girl and father. "Something has gone wrong."

Hermione's blue-violet light hovered closer at his shoulder, a hand grasping his arm. "Harry, I'm not sure…"

Stephen Granger spoke at the same time. "Young man, I'm very sorry for this scene during your birthday, but…"

Harry shook his head sharply. "You need to fix this, now, before it can't _be_ fixed. She's falling apart."

"_What?!"_ Jessica snapped. "What in heaven's name are you blabbering about now?"

Harry pinned her lavender light with his gaze.

"I'm talking about whatever happened to you in the last day or two that you are hiding from everyone who loves you, preventing them from helping you heal."

She sucked in a breath; then began to wheeze, backing away.

"_H-how do you know?!" _She demanded ragidly, her voice breaking.

"Honey, what is he talking about?" Her mother asked.

Harry turned to Hermione and took her hand after a few clumsy grasps. He began to walk away, dragging her behind him.

"Whatever it is, I don't need to know, just tell someone before it ruins you." He said softly over his shoulder into the silence, determined to move away and give the panicked girl space. He didn't want to elevate the pressure on her when she was so close to breaking.

"I'm _already _ruined." She whispered softly, and Harry heard his aunt ushering Dudley and the other cousins away with sharp words, clearing out the large living room with the efficiency of a mother used to rounding up eavesdropping boys.

Harry paused at the door, looking back to where Jessica stood alone beside her worried parents, pale lavender between the deep purple of her father and the fuschia tint of her mother.

"Not as long as you don't let it break you."

And with another sharp tug on Hermione's hand, he left the room.

* * *

><p>It was nearly three days later when Hermione approached him in the wide library of Grimmauld Place, her steps a familiar sound in his ears, the yellow of Kreacher on her heels with a metal tray bearing refreshments.<p>

The house-elf had turned a new leaf with the destruction of the soul within the locket; and had been more than devoted when Harry gave the elf the silver necklace as a momento.

He could see the pinpricks of metal about the elf's neck, and knew Kreacher still wore the locket with devotion.

It was a good thing jewlery did not count as clothes, or he would have been rewriting another contract no doubt. Though, that needed doing regardless. Surely the elder elf, if he insisted on working, would enjoy better clauses binding his service.

Hermione sat across from him, oddly silent as Kreacher placed ceramic mugs between them and disappeared.

When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper.

"Mum told me it was her student advisor. They've convinced her to press charges, though it will be her word against his. Times like this I wish that muggles had Veritaserum."

He felt a hard pange in his chest at that news; he slowly nodded, and at the encouragement, Hermione began speaking faster.

"And healing potions, too, for that matter. And, _a-and_ _wards_, and… oh Harry, we spend all this time working on new theories and challenging laws of science and magic, when the world is _suffering._ I can understand a little of why wizards hid themselves away, but all the_ g-good _we can do… surely it outweighs the evil. Surely we can find some way to come together. It's not the dark ages anymore, with superstition and witch hunts, especially when even then they did our kind little harm. I…I j-justwant to _h-h-help _somehow."

Her words ended with a fractured sob; Harry stood, his chair scraping back with a loud noise, rounding the table quickly to sink onto his haunches beside her, gathering her into his arms.

Against his shoulder, she shook her head with sudden anger.

"I hate feeling helpless. _Worse_, I hate being _a-able_ to help, and yet being _prohibited_ from doing so. When I think of what we could do to fix the world…"

She pulled away, and Harry Looked down at her to see that whatever tears she had cried were gone, replaced with firm determination.

"Thats what _I_ want to do, Harry. I don't want to just be Viola James, talking theory and magic in papers. I want to find a way to help the _muggle _world, too. Find a way to help them accept magic for what it_ is_; the answer we've all been looking for."

Harry smiled; and felt an answering drive catching in his own heart at the fire in her voice.

"We'll find a way, then. Between you and me, we'll find a way."

And if his gaze ever fell on the man who raped Hermione's cousin, he would be strongly tempted to develop a new skill in breaking souls himself.

* * *

><p>The summer break seemed over as fast as it had begun; and classes resumed like the inevitable change of the seasons.<p>

Hermione began to carry her things to Grimmauld place to study after classes, copying Harry's movements from the year before.

But more often than not, it was not their classes or new magical theories that they spoke of. It was the nature of magic and science itself; and between the two of them, a plan began to form.

It would take years; years of planning, studying, networking. It might even be impossible; the Ministry, if it got wind of it before they were ready, would surely retaliate. Or worse, the ICW; the entity made to regulate the use of magic to ensure no muggle could ever discover their society.

But that was the genius of the plan; so many things muggles did seemed like magic already. Many wizards and witches did not even realize just how far technology had come; nearly to the point of being more efficient than magic in some cases.

But not beyond it; not yet.

Hermione was the first to speak of how it could be done; 'discovering' magic with science, introducing it as some element or compound or force, something muggles could understand and study and not even consider to be something as superstitious as _magic._

Harry was the one to think of the theory of relativity, and how it might be reconciled with quantum mechanics. The thought that not all of the discovered elements in the theory were in place; that maybe magic itself was what was missing.

"We'll start a company." Hermione whispered to him as they leaned against each other on the frayed rug in Grimmauld Place, a fire roaring in front of them tended by Kreacher. "Start with pharmaceuticals, maybe. Genetically modified plants that are not modified at all; introducing magical specimens under the very nose of the Ministry. Concentrated serums from these organisms in order to cure the common cold, or influenza, or cancer. Shots that can heal muscle tears and repair bones. Potions made on a large scale and simply called medicine. Who would ever suspect it's magic in the beginning? We'll just be entrepreneurs."

It was late; she should have gone home over an hour before. But planning and dreaming had made them lose track of time, sharing thoughts between them on how it could be. Papers were scattered behind them; flow charts and graphs, ideas and strategies for the future. Harry ran a hand through her soft, curly hair, the heat of the fire causing static to spark between them.

"And we can contract with the government privately." He murmured back. "Truth serums, new drugs to use in interrogations before they become mainstream. Provide us a measure of security, political power."

She wrinkled her nose; he felt it against his shoulder and knew she didn't like the idea.

But she nodded anyway and spoke.

"And then, when everyone accepts it, we do more. More and more spectacular things. The whole world will be using our inventions. Progress, they'll call it. _Science_."

"It_ is_ science." Harry responded with a smile, watching the red lights of fire swirl and spark and eat hungrily at the green wood burning beneath it. One pattern fueling another, green life going still before it made the life of the fire burn more brightly.

Yellow light came and went; Kreacher bringing hot chocolate from the kitchen and hovering at the door as he liked to do, listening in on them, watching for even a hint of something to do.

Perhaps the elf would at least like a companion. Surely he grew bored simply bringing them food and cleaning Grimmauld Place.

"What do you think will happen, if the Ministry cottons on?" Hermione asked softly, after a moment had passed.

Harry squeezed her gently where she lay against his side.

"Depends on when they find out. Try to stop us, I imagine, if it's early enough. If it's not, hold endless meetings where they agonize over the imminent destruction of our culture by muggles. Pass around a lot of paperwork and send their drones to every Ministry in the world to share in the terror of the thought."

Hermione laughed; but he could still feel the tension in her shoulders.

Harry sighed.

"Nothing that's worth doing comes without risk. I don't have to give you examples from history on that score. We won't really know what they'll do until it happens. All we can do is move forward and prepare for any scenario."

Hermione's chin tilted up at him; he glanced down into moving blue-violet light, beautiful constellations of color in moving streams.

"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst." She said with a smile in her voice.

He smiled in return and gently leaned forward to meet her face with his own.

* * *

><p>When college let out for the winter his aunt made it plain that just like any college student away from home, he was expected to return to Surrey for a few days of family company at the least.<p>

Within a day, he was thinking fondly of his lab.

Within three days, he even missed Kreacher and his incessant demand for ways to serve the Master.

His aunt had redecorated; Harry expended far too much energy the first afternoon Looking about and memorizing the new placement of the living room chairs and end tables. She had placed a large plastic tree before the wide flamed windows, its black shadowy leaves highlighted with pricks of metal ornaments and electric lights.

When the first strand burned out under his gaze, Harry was commanded to reduce his use of magic until _after _christmas.

Dudley brought his steady girlfriend of two years to dinner; the local police lieutenants daughter, a short magenta pattern who preferred to be called Bea instead of Beatrice, which she claimed was stuffy. Harry had never spent much time in her company before; and after doing so, was glad of it.

Bea was, in one word, bubbly; her energy practically frothed from her like an incessant fountain, a colorful display that threatened to give him a headache. For a muggle, her soul was a bright beacon of happiness. Harry was sorely tempted to ask if she had magical ancestors, but to do so would cause awkward questions he doubted Dudley would appreciate.

Hermione, beside him at the dinner table, slipped her hand inside his own, and Harry relaxed at the touch, looking over at the much more calm light next to him.

He smiled at her, feeling her hand squeeze his in response.

For the next hour, he kept his hand in contact with her light; whether her hand, her side, her waist, and each touch made the family dinner a great deal more pleasant.

And he tried very hard to ignore Dudley's snicker at his admittedly lovesick actions.

* * *

><p>When he returned to Grimmauld Place, after nearly a week with the Dursleys, Harry took a deep breath and bathed in the silence.<p>

As much as he loved his aunt, her constant motion either cooking, cleaning, or spying on the neighbors through the drapes along with constant commentary had worn him down. Having gotten used to being alone, the activity within the Dursley house had been unwelcome.

He liked the order of his own home. Did that make him crotchety?

"Master is home!" Kreacher's high voice came from down the hallway, and Harry smiled to see the yellow drifting closer from the kitchen.

He tossed his outer cloak onto the rack, his gloves left on the entrance table as he gratefully toed off his orange dragon-hide boots.

"_Finally!_ Happy New Year, Kreacher." He said, and passed the house-elf as he strode towards his room.

"Can Kreacher get yous anything?" The elf's voice followed him along with the light patter of feet on hardwood.

"No." Harry replied over his shoulder, before ascending the steps two at a time.

"Is Master sure?" The house-elf was following him, and there was an odd note of desperation in his voice.

Harry frowned and paused at the top of the stair.

"Are you alright?"

The elf shifted on his feet; a loose floorboard creaked in the silence.

Harry Looked at him with a gentle extension of green power, and saw an elf slumped slightly, ears drooping.

But before he could comment, like a flower blooming in the sun, Kreacher straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, body nearly vibrating with energy.

_His_ energy.

"Kreacher is most fine now, Master Potter." The house-elf said, the sudden cheer in his voice at odds with the previous pleading words he had spoken.

"_Wait."_ Harry said, as the yellow swirled in the beginnings of teleportation. "What do you mean,_ now?_"

Kreacher hesitated, fingers absently clasping each other against his chest.

"Kreacher is very glad Master has returned."

Harry frowned. "You looked off until just now."

The house-elf shifted on his feet, and the floor creaked again. "Kreacher missed the Master's eyes the most." The elf finally said, his voice defiant, as if the admission was going to cost him something.

Harry tensed, a suspicion niggling at the back of his mind. "My_ eyes?_"

The elf nodded with quick jerks of his head, speaking faster, warming to the topic. "Yes, Master. Master Looks at Kreacher sometimes, and Master makes Kreacher feel young and strong again. Kreacher missed the Look."

Harry, at that last word, withdrew his power with a snap, the defined features of his house-elf becoming yellow and blurred again, a smaller splash of color against the familiar walls of Grimmauld Place.

He knew his Look had an effect on others. In animals, it was usually fear. In muggles, increased energy levels during the duration of the Look, usually focused on some task that was enjoyable or pressing. In magical people, the effect was skewed if the people he was Looking at recognized himself as the source of energy; they were either afraid or uncomfortable to be touched by foreign magic in such a way.

He hadn't thought to test long-term effects of daily exposure to his own energy, and had done no testing at all on its effect on magical creatures like house-elves. He had rather thought it was probable they would react like people or animals according to their level of sentience.

But Kreacher sounded like he not only enjoyed the sensation of his energy, but actively sought it out. It would certainly explain why the elf was so eager to please the last few months.

And that, more than anything, raised warning flags in his mind.

"I see. Thank you for telling me." Harry said simply, and turned away, hearing the elf pop out behind him.

In his room, he closed the door and sat on his bed, looking down at his feet as his mind raced.

He had to do more tests, immediately. He had to know if it was simply because Kreacher was a house-elf, or a magical creature, or if it was the frequency of Looks he received.

He had to come up with a way to stop Kreacher from relying on the energy boost of his own power in any way. Was the work too much to handle?

Most of all he really, _really_ needed to talk to Hermione.

* * *

><p>"How does it feel when I Look at you?" Harry asked straight out, as soon as he finished describing how Kreacher had acted and spoken.<p>

Hermione bit her lip, fidgeting in her chair in the library, trying to decide how to describe the feeling.

"Well… it's not _unpleasant_." She began, then shook her head. "Actually, unpleasant is far from how I would describe it. I can tell right away, your magic just... touches my own." She stopped again, looking out the window as people walked by on the street. _How to say it? _"It's w-warm..."_ It makes_ _my heart beats faster _"...kind of like a hug…"_ Or your fingers on my skin_ "...and it makes me feel safe." _And loved, very very loved. Like you've put a mark on me that says I'm yours. _

Hermione tossed her head and shifted in her seat. "I do feel a rush of energy, but I don't feel particularly stronger, and the sensation fades as soon as you look away." Though, she wouldn't mind if he did it more often. She could sympathize with Kreacher in that desire.

Harry sighed. "I talked to him more this morning, and I can't help but draw correlations between what he feels and what an addict feels. He admitted he is tired a lot, and that taking care of Grimmauld Place takes a toll. He has been using the energy bursts to so some of the cleaning and cooking."

That would certainly explain why Hermione noticed the house was not as clean as Hogwarts. She had figured the house-elf just disliked completely spotless homes, after living in a decade of filth. Or perhaps had just lost his knack for it.

But knowing that the elf had struggled instead made her feel mildly guilty for all the times she had pointed out a dusty bookshelf.

"Does he want to retire?"

Surely house-elves had some sort of retirement. They couldn't work forever.

"House-elves don't retire. They're contract is until death." Harry's voice was grim. Hermione straightened in outrage.

"_What?!_ That's preposterous!"

Harry's face twisted in distaste. "I know. But Kreacher won't even talk of renegotiating his contract with me without going into hysterics. I think I'm going to have to purchase another house-elf to help around here."

Hermione lifted her chin. "Absolutely _not,_ if their contracts are that horrible! Someone should do something. It's inhumane."

Harry leaned his head back in a stretch, letting out a long breath before he straightened. "I know. The wizarding world has a distinct lack of civil rights for many magical creatures. But there is not much we can do about it now."

Hermione folded her arms. "If Kreacher can't handle the workload because he is old, then make him younger."

Harry's body tensed; she saw even his fingers tighten on the armrest. "What?"

Hermione met eyes that did not focus on her own. "I've helped you write out your notes on the tests done on the soul sliver. You implied there was a noticeable difference between young and old patterns. If you can see that difference, it stands to reason you can change one pattern to another."

Harry moved uneasily, and his gaze dropped to the floor. "Hermione, I…"

One look into his guilty face, and she huffed in sudden realization. "You've already _done_ some testing on age reversal!"

At the accusation, Harry shrank in his chair. "I..."

Hermione leapt to her feet and stomped the five feet that separated them. "_Harry James Potter._"

"I'm_ sorry!_" Harry yelped at her angry tone. "At the time, after how upset you were over the soul… and then after, everything was going so well... and I just…"

"Stop before you dig the hole deeper." Hermione demanded. "You know how important it is to document all tests for future experiments. In leaving me out of it, we could have lost valuable data!"

Harry raised his hands in supplication. "I haven't done anything in nearly a year. Since before Kreacher gave me the locket to practice on. I got enough to draw some basic conclusions, but I hit a dead-end."

Hermione, after a seconds contemplation, gingerly slid into his lap, rewarded by his frustrated face twisting into surprise and distracted pleasure. His hands hesitated a moment over her shoulders before settling there.

"You've got all those experiments put away in that mind of yours, and I want you to tell me about them and why you are reluctant to try making Kreacher younger." She spoke softly to him, her own hands on his chest. "I'll have a new perspective, and might see something you missed."

Harry sighed, his chest rising and falling under her hands. He pressed her closer, and Hermione turned into his side, cuddling down in the chair like it was made for two people instead of one, her legs swung across his own.

His arm wrapped around her shoulder, and his breath ruffled her hair softly.

"You're going to be somewhat disappointed in me." He admitted finally, and Hermione shook her head.

"You have a reason for everything you do, even if I disagree. Disagreement is not disappointment."

Harry snorted, then ran one hand up and down her arm, as if to calm an anxious cat.

"I tested on animals."

Well, maybe she could be disappointed a _little._ Hermione's heart sank. More than anything else, she hated animal testing in any of its forms. A fact he was _well _aware of. Animals could not give consent; and the only thing she had found more horrifying than muggle animal labs was the potential that transfigured animals were_ aware_ when magical students practiced on them, twisting and sometimes killing their bodies. Animals had _no_ rights in the wizarding world, from the smallest mouse to the largest abraxus.

"Go on." She whispered, and Harry's arms tightened.

Then, he reluctantly began to speak, in dry clinical terms.

"I started with a _Columba livia domestica,_ a species of street pigeon I obtained from outside. Standard pale blue bird-pattern. I practiced Quickening first…"

Hermione closed her eyes, resting against his side as he spoke, and tried not to think about the fact that in order to bring something to life, you had to kill it first. And that Harry would not, as any scientist would not, be content with doing an experiment once. It had to be replicated; which meant her Harry had killed a defenseless animal over and over.

And somehow, to her, that thought was worse than knowing he had split a human soul into strands of light to see how its personality was structured.

_He had to know._ Hermione reminded herself. _We both have to know._

But at that moment, she would almost rather _not._

* * *

><p>Hermione spent a week of her free time before classes resumed on organizing a new folder, binders of crisp white paper rapidly filling with notes and untested theories, along with what experiments had failed.<p>

Harry had not just practiced on one pigeon. He had tested Quickening on several different species of mammals as well, mostly stray cats or dogs with the odd owl thrown in, as well as a wide variety of plants. Enough to confirm that death in an animal body was a temporary state, able to be reversed with the right pattern restoration. Not enough, however, to confirm if the animals once Quickened retained the same personality as before. In plants, Quickening usually resulted in new growth, buds or leaves forming from a branch or stalk, not necessarily the restoration of the old growth.

But in his experiments with making old patterns young again, the results had been erratic at best, and at worst a total failure.

"It doesn't seem to make medical sense." Harry told her as she sat at her own designated desk in the wide library. "The old pattern's light simply moves slower, though its heart might beat at the same rate as a younger specimen. When I speed up that light, that life seems to wear out the body at an exponential rate. Mere days, in some cases, and they die. The only way to truly revert them appears to be to change not only the speed, or age, of their light but to also revert the old pattern to a new pattern, an entirely younger body. And I couldn't do that properly without first killing the pattern, making the dead body younger, then Quickening it at a younger speed."

Hermione tapped her pen on the desk, brows drawn together in thought.

"So, we have two elements at work in plants, the light of its life and then an ageless genus pattern. In animals, three elements; the light of its life, which slows with age; its genus pattern that is set for its species with color; and the age of its genus pattern, which seems to be manipulated by various geometric shapes?"

Harry nodded, and Hermione continued.

"Then, in humans, four elements. Light displaying life and at times emotion, the genus pattern whose soulless base is white, the age pattern of the body in shapes, and then the soul, which has unique color but also unique shapes?"

Harry smiled, shaking his head with a laugh. "Humans are nearly impossible to categorize. Not only are their lights unique, but so are their shapes, and those shapes age at different rates than everyone else. Even thinking about de-aging a human pattern permanently seems impossible without risking accidentally changing them into someone else while doing it."

Hermione only turned a page and made another notation above a simple chart she had drawn. "That's why we're starting simple with animals. No added soul to factor in alongside unique geometric shapes." She frowned down at the paper. "Though, it bothers me to think that magical creatures have no unique souls, when they obviously have unique personalities. So do animals, for that matter. I guess I always subscribed to the idea that everyone deserves a heaven to go to when they die."

"I'm not sure the afterlife is heaven." Harry countered. "Or even a place at all." He stared off into the distance, eyes shuttered in thought. "And just because humans have unique souls that go somewhere else does not mean that magical creatures and animals do not have unique consciousness'. I've long wondered what happens to that consciousness when I change the pattern, and whether these younger patterns will have the same memories as the old one. I'm changing their brains, Hermione. I don't realistically know how that _won't_ make them an entirely new person."

Hermione put her pen down and sighed. "I know. I want to say magic can solve it all, but magic is still science, still follows rules. Changing the brain in any way will affect things. Have you looked into specific patterns for different parts of a body? Changing everything _but_ the brain?"

Harry wilted where he stood. "I've thought about it, but I can't at this point. I see barely any difference in individual body parts from the outside, as they all make up the body pattern together. In order to do so..." He paled, but continued. "I would have to observe each individual organ and bone separately _while it was alive_ to see how it fit into the pattern. And not only once, but for every animal I thought about de-aging. It would be rediscovering the entire human and animal body by myself, and memorizing each individual part of a pattern. And not every specimen's organs and flesh would be the same… the vast scope of it would require _years_ dedicated solely to that one task. Duplicating known patterns is easy, but _changing_ them… it requires far more knowledge of individual portions. It's not an easy fix."

Hermione closed the notebook and straightened the desk, her hands moving restlessly as she tried to turn the problem over in her mind.

"You created a dragon from stone without that kind of knowledge. How?"

Harry leaned over her desk, black hair falling across his face as he answered. "Easily. For one, it was not alive. It was fueled by my own power, which after the fact was not the best use of magic in a duel, as it exhausted me within minutes. I simply took the pattern of the dragon I faced at the tournament, which was a very unique genus pattern that was easy to memorize, and forced that pattern onto the stone underneath my feet, which gave it the color of stone but the pattern of a dragon. It wasn't very neat work, but I was a bit distracted. As soon as I stopped fueling it, however, it fell apart back into stone. A dragon can not live with a stone body, even if every piece of the pattern is in place. If I had tried to Quicken it to its own life, it would not have taken."

Hermione hummed in agreement, looking up into Harry's face as he leaned over her. He seemed to be looking at her fingers, eyes flickering back and forth, but it was hard to tell.

She smiled slightly. "How about lunch? And we'll talk to Kreacher about at least giving this a try. If all else fails, we return him back to his current state, and reconsider getting more help."

Though, she wouldn't hire a single elf without a contract that didn't equal modern slavery. She was certain Harry would agree with her on that score.

He brightened.

"Deal."

* * *

><p>Kreacher hadn't hesitated to agree to be their test subject. Harry hadn't been certain if it was because the house-elf wanted to be younger again, or because it meant Harry would be focusing a great deal of energy on him, and doubtless a great deal of Looks.<p>

But by the second week of the new term, Harry stood in his laboratory with Hermione, and told Kreacher to take a seat. Hermione had come up with what she hoped was a workable plan, after going through some of their previous notes on transfiguration and pattern-manipulation.

Harry had spent that time studying Kreacher's pattern until he was completely certain he could recreate him if something went direly wrong.

He was the neon yellow of all house-elves, but Kreacher's light was slightly slower than a younger elf's would be, and yet his magic was still strong. His pattern tended towards trapezoids and parallelograms, a mix of sharp angles and sloping lines over a short spindly humanoid shape. And in his study of the old elf, Harry noticed something he never had before in quick glances; underlying the yellow was much more subtle detail, an infinitesimal pattern within the larger hue. He wasn't sure if it was unique only to Kreacher and house-elves, or if there was something similar in other magical creatures. Harry had made a mental note to study the phenomenon later once they were finished with their current project.

"Kreacher is ready, Master." The house-elf declared, and Harry smiled before sitting down himself in another chair that had been placed in the room.

Hermione began to speak to the magical quill.

"First test, February seventh, on house-elf Kreacher at Grimmauld Place. Harry will temporarily stop the life in the subject, then attempt basic pattern changes regarding the shapes that make up a younger house-elf body, based on observations of other house-elves at the House-Elf Registry office in Diagon Alley. When the new pattern is established, Harry will Quicken Kreacher and adjust the speed of light to confirm his new youthful state, and then we will interview the house-elf to see what, if any, memories or personality changes have taken place."

As soon as Hermione stopped speaking, Harry's hands tightened around his staff, and he locked his gaze on Kreacher's pattern as it squirmed in the seat, legs swinging loosely in nervous anticipation.

Then, he made the pulse of light still.

Hermione made an agonized sound behind him as the yellow pattern slumped down in its chair, nearly falling from the seat. He knew she hadn't liked the idea of what they were doing, regardless if it was for a good cause. He also knew that this was the first time she witnessed him kill a live being directly in this manner.

Harry let out a breath and pushed how she might be feeling from his mind; it was time to get to work.

He began to rearrange the pattern, a line here, another there, duplicating the lines of the younger patterns he had seen. He focused entirely on his task, even when he heard the door to the lab open and close again.

When he was finished, he looked away.

Hermione was gone.

With a glance towards where a younger Kreacher lay sprawled, Harry strode to the door, frowning as he looked out into the hallway.

Hermione's light approached, but it was dim with strong emotion.

"Are you alright?" Harry questioned, and Hermione brushed past him to stand beside the quill.

When she spoke, her voice was stiff. "The Quill is still transcribing."

In other words, she didn't want to talk about it.

With another frown, Harry retook his place in the seat. "I've finished the de-aging process. Now I will Quicken him. Time?"

Hermione's voice replied steadily. "It's been one hour and fifteen minutes."

More than he had suspected. With a nod, Harry flicked Kreacher's light into motion, a quick lively beat of health and strength.

The elf jerked, jumping from its chair which clattered to the ground.

Harry held his breath as Kreacher floundered for a second.

Then, his elf's voice began to speak in the same hissing tone he had used when he first came upon them over a year before._"Intruders!_ How dare you invade the Master's house!"

Hermione's light, already weak, dimmed further in disappointment. Harry spoke quickly as he saw magic rising in the small figure. "Who is your master?"

The elf raised its hands in indignation, magic sparking like live yellow fire in its palms. "Master Orion Black!"

Before the spell could be cast, Harry stopped the elf's light, and the creature fell to the wooden floor with a unpleasant crunch.

Harry winced, and heard Hermione groan.

Harry cleared his throat. "Experiment has failed. Body regression appears successful, but subject lost at least one to two decades of memory. I will now return Kreacher to his original older form."

"Deactivate." Hermione snapped, and Harry heard the quill clatter to the table it and parchment had been placed upon. "I'll be outside when you're done."

Before he could ask what was wrong, the door was closing behind her.

Harry sighed, taking a moment to lean back in his chair, an ache developing in both his neck and his bottom from sitting so long already in one position.

Then he looked at Kreacher dead on the floor, and set about putting him to rights again.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, Harry found her light curled up on his bed, a green sheet thrown over her legs.<p>

"We'll try again." He said softly, uncertain if she was asleep.

"I know." She wasn't.

He walked closer, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

There was a moment of silence, then her hand touched his own, fingers twining with his. "Just another difference in what we see, I think. It was very disturbing to watch you tear apart and transfigure skin and bone before threading it back together. I t-threw up."

Her voice jerked; Harry sucked in a breath and swung his legs over, laying down so they were face to face. "I'm sorry. I didn't think what the process might look like to you."

He felt the bed move as she shook her head, blue-violet light shifting.

"I'm fine. I just don't do well with b-blood, not after... the _t-troll._" She growled the last, and her hand tightened on his. "It's silly, and I feel stupid for responding that way. I'm not going to stop watching the experiments,so don't even say it." Harry snapped his mouth closed. He had been about to suggest just that. "I'll get used to it. This is part of science, it's not all clean and magical. Sometimes it's messy. Is Kreacher alright?"

Harry reached out with his other hand until he felt her warm shoulder, then ran it down her back with soft motions as he replied.

"He's fine. A bit disappointed to still be old and wrinkly."

She laughed choppily, then shifted until he felt her breath against his cheek. Soft skin touched his own, and his vision narrowed until all he saw was the beautiful shades of her pattern.

Despite the situation, he very much wanted to roll her on top of him and bathe in her light. He was _very _aware of the fact that they were in his bed, a situation he had never been in before and one he was probably enjoying far too much.

Then Hermione's face rubbed softly against his own, and he felt the drying liquid on her face, smelled the salt of tears. All thoughts of sex were pushed to the back of his mind, far less urgent than the fact that his Viola was feeling wretched.

Harry pulled her closer and held her against him, her hair falling over one hand, the other clasped tightly with hers as he whispered in her ear.

"It was just the initial experiment. We'll try our other ideas, one a week for the next two months, as we planned. If they all fail, then we get another elf. I'm not sure I even want to succeed." When Hermione jerked in his arms, Harry made a sound of amusement. "I don't want to make something live forever. It seems like a big responsibility, being the fountain of youth. I have enough unique abilities on my hands to last me a lifetime."

Her mouth lifted in a reluctant smile against his neck. "You're probably right. We're going to try anyway though."

"Yep." Harry said, and laughed in earnest. "If the possibility exists I have to know, even if I regret it."

"I'm sure every scientist who discovers something of magnitude feels somewhat the same. Like your idol."

Hermione had begun to refer to Albert Einstein, the german physicist whose work Harry studied so thoroughly, as that. Harry rather hoped he was his role model instead; if he had half of the intuition and insightful nature Einstein had, surely he would see much more clearly in solving his own problems.

But then again, Einstein was still just a man. He had no doubt struggled just as much with his own discoveries, and also with what they had brought to light. One simple equation that had eventually led to the creation of a weapon whose scope was far greater than anything that the wizarding world had ever created.

Harry strongly felt that even fiendfyre was inferior to a muggle atomic bomb.

Hermione yawned and relaxed. After a moments thought, Harry grabbed the pattern of the green blanket under him and pull it out to settle it over them both.

"Just a short nap." Hermione murmured to the pillow.

Harry lay his arm back over her shoulders, breathing in her unique scent with a pleased sound.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>All of the experiments failed. By the time March came to an end and April began, both Harry and Hermione were sick of testing anything at all on Kreacher, who while patient, was still just as needy of Harry's energy as he had been at the beginning.<p>

Harry liked being used a drug even less than the thought of being a pseudo youth elixir.

"We've done all we can do." He told Hermione with a slashing gesture towards the notebook in her hands. "There's nothing left to try, unless you're ready to do invasive experiments on his inner organs."

He didn't have to see her light pulse in agitation to know that thought disturbed her a great deal. While she hadn't gotten sick during any of the other experiments they had done, she obviously didn't like them any better regardless.

Who could blame her?

"We'll go to the Registry office after the end of the school year then and start searching for a reasonable house-elf contract." She said, and arms of light waved erratically. "I have to start studying for finals on the weekends."

"Then we're agreed to close this project?"

She sighed, but walked to the desk and dropped the book on it with a thump. "Yes. Temporary findings is that memories and personality are directly related to a patterns age." She paused, and he felt her gaze on him. "You're aware that this probably won't apply to humans? If the soul contains the consciousness and is a separate element, it could reasonably be taken from an old body and put into a new one. Just like the silver of Voldemort you destroyed."

He grimaced. "Yes. I don't feel like testing it though."

She sniffed. "Believe it or not, human testing isn't regulated in the wizarding world as long as consent is obtained. The rules are far more lax than in the muggle world, where they actually care enough about people's live to ensure things are done properly."

Harry snorted in response. "Until the Ministry finds out we're doing experiments on souls. Magic relating to souls is considered Dark Magic, and therefore illegal."

Hermione sighed. "I know. I can understand why, even if I don't completely agree with it. You have to research somehow."

"You can." Harry returned. "If you work with the Unspeakables and never share your findings with anyone but the Ministry."

She laughed, walking closer to hook her arm with his as they left the library. "And we both know that will never happen. I firmly believe knowledge shouldn't be kept secret."

Harry raised a brow. "That's not true. You think we should keep the full extent of my abilities secret."

Her fingers pinched him. "That's not the same!"

Harry rubbed the painful spot and grinned._"Hypocrite!"_

Her light danced closer to his and he jumped away in response before one hand could swat his head.

"I am not! I'm…" She sniffed. "Selfish. The only person who can hide knowledge is me."

Her voice was amused. Harry laughed.

"That's the definition of a hypocrite in one sentence. Congratulations."

She lunged for him and he dodged, heading for the kitchen at a run with a quick Look for obstacles.

"Come back here!" She demanded behind him, laughter making the command nothing more than a friendly suggestion.

Harry's smile widened. He jumped around Kreacher and headed through the kitchen. "Make me!" He tossed the words over one shoulder.

"Oh I _will._" Her voice was full of determination. He had enough time to see the green and orange of her wand in one hand.

Then his world became blue-violet and he stumbled to a stop.

The fiend had cast a wordless _bubblehead_ charm on him. _When had she practiced wordless incantations?!_

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" Her voice came closer, satisfied, and Harry was too thrilled to even bother dispelling the charm. He smiled, blind as a bat in broad daylight.

He certainly hoped that whatever she decided to do it lasted a _long _time.

* * *

><p>"We're ready, my Lord." Crouch said in soft, eager tones. Behind him, hundreds of eyes glowed in the darkness with pale fire.<p>

Tom Riddle turned, adjusting the sleeve on his long robe over his wand holster. He met the fervent eyes of his closest advisor, saw the madness there in the too-bright gaze. His glanced at his other Death Eaters, assembled like a group of young wizards about to pull some elaborate prank. Excitement with just a hint of fear.

Fear, of a sixteen year old boy, who may or may not have been prophesied to stop him. A boy who had spelled his own defeat not once but twice. The savior of the wizarding world.

They knew the roads he traveled and the muggle conveyance that often carried him; the aurors who guarded him easily followed from one warded location to another. The Ministry, so diligent in protecting and watching their savior that they did not watch their own backs.

Riddle would see how the boy and only two guards fared against the inferi.

* * *

><p>Harry, leaning back in the passenger seat, saw the wall of magic coalesce in front of them.<p>

"Stop!" He yelled, and jerked forward against the seatbelt as his uncle stomped on the breaks of the automobile, the tires shrieking in protest.

But they still hit that wall, the front of the car crumpling, metal collapsing. From behind them, cars honked in confusion.

Harry blinked, and the wall that had crushed the front hood disappeared, leaving behind something_ else._

"God help us." His uncle said hoarsely, and Harry hissed a question.

"What do you see?" What Harry saw was impossible; the blank white of human cadavers, too many to count, a legion of death. How had no one _noticed?_

"P-p-people. They're… they're_ staring_ at us. It's hard to tell in the dark... they don't look_ right_. They aren't _right._"

It _was _supposed to be dark; the sun had set hours ago, before his uncle had picked him up from Grimmauld Place after a long day at the office.

"Stay here. Lock the doors." Harry said to his uncle, and didn't protest when he heard the man rapidly dialing some number on his cellphone. He opened his door and slipped out, holding his staff in one hand.

Behind him, on the sidewalk, the two aurors who had been following above them on brooms rapidly approached, one landing beside him with a quick clap of boots on asphalt.

"Mr. Potter! Come with us, now. You are in great danger."

"What are they?" He asked, eyes never leaving the hoard of white ahead of him.

"Inferi. Climb aboard and we will take you to safety."

_Inferi._ Dead bodies enchanted to life with dark magic. He didn't doubt if he was closer he would see the stamp of black magic hidden in the shining white of each corpse.

Inferi, who would kill anything in their path, possessing ten times the strength and speed of a normal person.

_Why hadn't they attacked yet?_

"_What's going on here!?"_ Angry shouts came from behind them, people leaving their cars. The street hadn't been busy; but at least three cars had been behind them, perhaps more. A young voice called out over the agitated murmurs. "_That man has a broom! And a pointy hat!"_

The auror cursed. "Now, Mr. Potter. The longer we wait..."

"And the rest?" He asked softly. "Who will protect my uncle and the muggles here?"

"It can't be helped! They could attack at any moment." The aurors voice was urgent; above them, the second auror twirled his broom in a circle, scanning the scene below.

"What are they waiting for?" Harry asked, ignoring the man's extended blue hand.

"Who knows?_ Please..._"

The white parted; and from the middle a pattern he was familiar with, _intimately_ familiar with, appeared.

A pattern he had captured and killed and quickened and shredded and rebuilt and finally destroyed.

_Not another bloody, broken Voldemort._

The auror hissed in a breath; Harry saw him swing his leg over the green light of his broom.

"Bringing reinforcements, then?" Harry said casually, even as the auror cursed and lifted off the ground with a shout up to his companions above.

"_It's You-Know-Who!"_

"Is someone hurt? What's going on? Who are these people?" The angry muggle voice from behind approached closer, no doubt trying to squint in the darkness.

"Get back in your cars." Harry said, beginning to walk towards where the blood-red pattern of Voldemort waited. "These men are armed."

He heard the muggle curse; and his alarmed shouts to the others. No doubt in minutes the police would be arriving, thanks to his uncle. He was standing in the middle of an incident that would keep a dozen obliviators busy, when they finally arrived.

Harry held his taff tight in one hand as he approached; and a voice called to him from the pattern ahead.

"Harry Potter! I've come to kill you!"

_Wasn't that much obvious already?_ Harry stopped a few paces away, frowning at the broken wizard.

"How many of you_ are_ there? This makes three I've encountered so far."

Voldemort laughed, a high shriek of cold humor. "You'll never know _Potter_."

Other patterns were coming; and among them was the grey taint of Crouch Jr, who he had faced at the Tournament.

The remaining Death Eaters the Ministry had been searching for, all lined up and ready, wands shining in their hands.

"Why come after_ me?_" Harry said quietly, burning for some sort of answer. "Is it because I've defeated you before?"

Voldemort's red light flickered; and Harry Looked at him, seeing the man's angry serpentine face for a brief moment before withdrawing his power.

He would need all he had when the men attacked. Five wizards and an innumerable amount of inferi. No wonder the aurors had gotten on their brooms; he wouldn't be surprised if they outright fled to the Ministry. Only minutes had passed; and it would probably take at least ten more for the aurors to reassemble and return in force.

If Harry left, none of the people here would stand even one of those minutes. _Collateral_; the Death Eaters assumed, correctly, that Harry wouldn't leave them defenseless.

He tightened both his hands on his staff and held it in front of him, as Voldemort spoke.

"_Why?_ Is the fact that you are a thorn in my side not enough?" The inferi began to move, silently circling him, spreading out, no breaths sounding in his ears, only the scuffs of feet moving across the cracked road. "Or that you killed me twice before? Or that people claim you are greater than me?"

Another minute, passed. The Death Eaters were growing restless with their Master's gloating, their lights flickering, heads turning up to the sky. They, at least, knew that the Ministry would be soon arriving.

In the distance, he heard a siren.

"Or _maybe_, I simply want to see you _die_, and not even at my own hand. I'll enjoy watching my army tear you apart and consume the pieces."

Harry closed his eyes; he didn't need them. He heard the dark lord laugh; the nervous chuckles of the wizards behind him, the many sounds of multiple bodies moving on all sides of him, waiting for the command to attack.

He had no time to wait; and really, what was the point? Inferi had a weakness; a large one, one that he would be happy to use.

Really, the dark lord should have rethought his idea of an army that could only attack physically, and only defend themselves with brute strength and bare flesh.

"_Kill him!" _Voldemort hissed, as white light gathered to strike as one.

"_Potter!"_ He heard the shout from above; a single auror in the sky screaming a warning.

Harry smiled, tilting his head back, his mind expanding to see the patterns gathered around him, white humans with no souls, no life other than the red-black fuel in their veins that tied them to Voldemort's will.

Human patterns, empty cadavers, who could not bear the touch of fire.

"_Fiendfyre."_ Harry breathed, his own green light growing in strength, pooling into the red staff in his hands, phoenix song singing its exultant counterpart.

The flame patterns gathered about him, as white as the inferi, but burning, hot, untamable. It rose in the shape of a phoenix, wide wings spread wide, long tail streaming behind it, flames wreathing its form like a shining halo.

Voldemort screamed in rage as it fell upon the inferi, consuming with single-minded purpose, white becoming white, human patterns changed to fire in less than a moment, a blink of the eye; a phoenix of wild heat and hunger that raged among them.

Harry saw it take two of the Death Eaters in its flight; saw Voldemort's red strength rise and hold it's first strike at bay, the grey light of Crouch huddled behind his master.

The white phoenix was singing; or perhaps it was only his staff, humming under his fingers at the sheer amount of power being channeled through it.

One Death Eater came for him, dodging flames and raising his wand to strike. Harry made the wizards pale red light stop with death, the human pattern falling to the ground as the rusty soul rose to disappear at the loss of its body.

More and more inferi came; his phoenix ate them whole, its form grown so large now that it wrapped around him, fiery feathers falling to liquid flame that raced across the bare ground.

He heard screams from behind; men and women fleeing from the wild flames. The sirens screeched, police boots hitting the ground. He smelled burning flesh and clothing, the formerly cool night air turned to stinging heat.

Sweat gathered on his brow; the Fiendfyre pulling at his own power, threatening to break from his control as it had long ago while testing the spell at Hogwarts, running out of targets to consume and turning its wild eyes to wide destruction of the buildings around and the cars behind.

"_I'll kill you!" _Voldemort screamed, one slash of his wand turning the phoenix aside to fall upon one of the last Death Eaters left, who had turned to flee.

The dark lord strode toward him, wand alight with curses about to come free.

Harry looked at the wizards wand, and made green wood and orange dragon essence into tan cotton string, falling limp in the mans hand. Voldemort screamed; and wandless black spells rose from his scarlet form, daggers in the air to pierce him.

From the side, grey light sprang, a wand in another wizard's hand, Crouch attacking as one with his master.

Harry jumped back, and with a slow angry beat of his heart took their souls and tore them in two.

Crouch screamed, falling to the ground with the same horrified sound that the Locket had made when he tried to make it something other than itself.

Voldemort did not fall; the broken pattern, frayed and tattered, split and seemed to hang, clinging, to the body it inhabited, a poor fit after all. The wizard cried out, struggling to remain conscious, and Harry took ahold of the two souls and tore them again, slowing the life giving pulse of life to the stillness of death.

He watched the grey of Crouch fade away, broken by Harry's hand into multiple parts that each disappeared one by one, the unbroken white body left behind, crumpled on the ground.

Voldemort went to his knees, and Harry Looked at him, saw eyes wide and still, orbs in a skull that no longer held consciousness inside of it. The red of his soul, broken too many times over, shattered and gleaming like fallen pieces of a mirror.

The wizard fell forward limply, and the phoenix fiend turned and sang to fall upon them.

Harry seized the white fire pattern and with a wrench turned it to a water pattern and hue instead, the heat of flames changed at once to cooling mist that fell in soft droplets of blue haze.

Harry turned, Looking around.

The Death Eaters and inferi alike were all dead; what the fire had not eaten lay strewn about in white pieces, melted bodies and limbs randomly placed a macabre pattern. The buildings that lined the street appeared untouched; and his fire had never reached the cars on either side of the battle, though the empty one nearby looked fairly twisted.

He Looked at Voldemort again; the man fallen face down on the ground. Something caught his eye; a pattern he had never seen before, a hole on the hand of the dead white body.

But it wasn't a hole; it wasn't a shadow, either; it was _light_. A light that did not shine; a light made of shadows.

Something that made no sense and correlated with nothing he had ever seen before.

Harry knelt, looking closer at the body, and saw the shadow-light attached to a ring, one made of a gold alloy, the sharp crispness of its pattern enveloped by the odd pattern that rested within a stone inside it. He reached out and pulled the ring from the dark wizard's body, then stood, looking down at it in his hand.

Had it something to do with the inferi? Or the reason yet another part of Voldemort had attained a new body?

Or something else entirely?

The non-light of the stone mocked him; triangular patterns of bright shadow, an impossibility he could not explain.

"Harry?" His uncle called cautiously, and Harry slipped the ring into his pocket, turning again to see his uncle standing next to two men wearing the pinpricks of metal badges, policemen.

"Mr. Potter." The second auror, who had called his warning from above, landed beside him, tall broom in hand. He heard the policemen cursing, his Uncle trying to explain haphazardly what was going on. "More aurors will be here in moments. We'll handle the muggles."

Harry only Looked at him, his hair growing wet and sticking to his damp skin in the mist.

"How will you explain this?"

The auror wouldn't look at his face; the man's head was turned down and away.

"Oh, standard obliviation spells mostly, not much explanation necessary. Perhaps a car explosion or something of the sort. A wreck, even." His voice was nervous; Harry withdrew his power and leaned against his staff with a long sigh, the exhaustion of changing so many patterns finally beginning to take its toll.

He was getting stronger; a year ago he would not have been able to handle so much magic as easily.

Harry saw light explode around them; multiple aurors apparating in, the light of their souls bringing a multitude of colors into the shadowy street, wands held in front of them at the ready as the core held their formation and the exterior ranks rolled to the side to avoid any potential enemy fire.

The muggle police cursed again; but were soon silenced by a spell as the aurors took in the situation.

"Not my uncle!" Harry called out hastily, moving towards the large Dursley. "He's with me."

"Of course, Mr. Potter." One of the closest aurors quickly said, backing away at his approach as if he had been confronted with a dragon.

Harry realized abruptly that _all_ the aurors were keeping their distance; talking in low tones as they moved around the street.

When he reached his uncle, the older man hesitantly asked if he was alright.

"Yeah." Harry said simply, and Looked over the aurors. When each one's form that his light made whole glanced over at him in turn, he saw the way they quickly looked away, hunching their shoulders at the touch of his energy like whipped dogs. Harry sighed again, shaking his head as he stared blankly at his uncles smashed car.

With a squeeze of the wooden staff in his hand, he made the car's unique pattern whole again, the automobile's metal screeching as it unbent and reformed, the complicated engine snapping into proper place.

Any electronics would be fried, and even on the older car that would mean the starter was no good. The thing would need to be towed.

"Good show back there." His uncle finally said, once he stopped staring at his repaired vehicle. "With those, ah, criminals? And the… fire…"

The man's booming voice trembled a bit; Harry supposed knowing you housed someone capable of mass destruction was one thing, witnessing it personally quite another.

Perhaps his uncle might be a tad more lenient when he requested to move to Grimmauld Place at the end of the school year.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


	15. Golden Wards

_**AN: **__Some slight trouble uploading this chapter; crossing fingers it posts this time! _

* * *

><p>Auror Hill had opted to stay. He knew it was foolish; surely the Boy-Who-Lived, as powerful as he had proven to be, could not survive the odds against him.<p>

The Death Eaters would target _him_, next. He flew above them in the cloudless sky, his red robes grey in the darkness but all too visible from below.

He should have fled like Oliver; ran back to the Ministry for reinforcements and safety in numbers. But he had followed Harry Potter for over a year now, on one shift or another, and he felt some obligation for the preoccupied boy who at times seemed so powerful and knowing, looking over his shoulder directly at where they hid guarding him with a slight smile.

And yet, at times, so fragile; stumbling on a curb, jerked away from running into a plastic muggle sign with a sharp tug of his muggleborn companion. It had not happened as often lately; but Hill remembered each time the teenager had faltered and misstepped because it was so at odds with the powerful figure that had summoned a dragon from the stone under his feet with only a wave of his staff. It made the boy human; less a sorcerer and more a teenager. An impression only heightened by the way the boy snuck off with his muggleborn girlfriend to a house in London, reminding Hill of his own young loves, stealing kisses in alleyways with a mischievous grin.

Now, the boy who he had watched so closely faced off against his enemies alone, nearly surrounded by hundreds of pale inferi, a Dark Lord and his remaining minions.

A Dark Lord who should be dead; Hill had seen the grotesque infantile version Kissed himself, standing by the Minister as it happened. This man was not a misshapen child; he stood tall, so similar to the Dark Lord who had terrorized the Ministry when Hill was only just entering Hogwarts. Was it really him? Had some Death Eater merely taken on his appearance? It would not be beyond them.

The Dark Lord look-alike approached Potter; called out some threat in a loud voice. Hill barely heard it; and Potter's reply was lost to the wind in his ears.

Hill flew lower; he doubted a few feet would matter, once the inevitable duel took place. Potter spoke again; a quiet murmur. Hill tightened his fist around his wand, holding the broom steady with his knees.

If they could only keep talking, stalling until the Ministry arrived…

Hill sucked in a breath when Harry Potter's eyes began to gleam in the dark light, their green irises letting off piercing light, power thickening in the air and thrumming in his own heart, a pulse of foreign energy touching him that he did not expect, making his broom waver in response.

"_Why?_ Is the fact that you are a thorn in my side not enough?" The pale wizard spoke loudly, and Hill saw the inferi begin to rotate and waver, creeping closer and around the teenager, eyes locked on his form like kneazles stalking a mouse. "Or that you killed me twice before? Or that people claim you are greater than me?"

_Twice before? Was this wizard claiming in fact to be the Dark Lord resurrected? That was impossible!_

The Death Eaters spread out as well, some uneasily looking at the inferi nearby, even as Hill heard muggle sirens drawing closer.

It would be a bloodbath if the inferi turned upon the muggles next, as they doubtless would. Hill could try a few flame spells; but he doubted he would get many off before the Death Eaters took him down.

_If only the Ministry would hurry the hell up…_

"Or _maybe_, I simply want to see you _die_, and not even at my own hand. I'll enjoy watching my army tear you apart and consume the pieces." The wizard continued, mocking, smiling with sharp teeth, slitted nostrils widening in excitement.

Hill watched as Potter closed those glowing eyes; _was the boy not going to even try to fight?_

The wizards in dark robes laughed, the inferi beginning to crouch in preparation of a strike.

Hill saw the wizard lift his wand, gesturing toward the inferi, the blind boy's eyes still closed, head tilted back.

"_Potter!"_ He yelled helplessly in warning despite himself, trying to get the boy to do _something. _Surely he could recreate his dragon? Use fire? Did he know_ nothing_ of_ inferi?_

The inferi began to pounce at the wizard's urging, a wave of dead human flesh ready to rend and tear and _feed_…

Harry Potter smiled, his lips moving with some spell, the runes carved into the staff in his hands beginning to shine. White hands with dirty black claws reached for his torso, teeth snapping towards his skin, and Hill lifted his wand only to be suddenly tossed back high into the air as a wave of heat flooded from the boy, fire on its heels with feathered wings spread wide and open, a regal neck lifting in some song he couldn't hear with his own ears, only felt trembling in his bones.

_Fiendfyre_; the boy had cast_ fiendfyre!_ Hill, like all aurors, had seen it only in training, enough to recognize the illegal dark spell if he ever saw it… enough to know that he could never possibly control it.

The inferi cowered; and then the firebird fell upon them, every piece of flesh its fire touched vanishing like air, consumed by a hunger far greater than their own. It swooped around Potter, the roar of its fire pushing him farther and farther up, inferi burned away with each beat of its wings, dozens and dozens, some completely, some only losing heads and torsos and hands and feet, anything the flame touched…

The bird flew through two of the dark robed wizards, and they vanished as quickly as the inferi; fiendfyre knew neither foe nor friend, consuming equally those weak to it as those strong. The pale wizard who so resembled the executed Dark Lord managed to hold it at bay for a moment, turning it aside, speaking some spell that made his ears burn.

To Hill's astonishment, the firebird left the wizard behind, turning to seek easier targets still proliferate around Potter, circling wildly and growing larger, beak open, feathered flame streaming heat and fire.

Another Death Eater dodged the flame and leaped toward Potter through its coils; before Hill could even think to shout another warning, the wizard dropped face-down to the ground.

_Dead? How?_

Hill abruptly noticed that Potter's gleaming eyes were open; leaving the prone form before him to look towards where the leader stood.

The fiendfyre wrapped around his standing body like a protective shield, its extended wings sweeping up inferi as they approached, mindless, at the bidding of their creator. Hill had never heard of the flame spell used in such a way; had not known it was possible.

The pale dark wizard screamed something, lifting his wand, flicking the fiendfyre aside again to kill one of the remaining Death Eaters. Harry Potter only watched him, emerald light growing stronger, the staff in his had shining brightly enough now that Hill could not look directly at it even through the swirling fire.

Potter still did not move, as the Dark Lord approached; and Hill saw no spell spoken or light fly as the raving wizard's wooden wand was transfigured to limp string, which was then tossed aside with an angry scream as raw power rose from the man, making the fiendfyre back away from Potter's form like a cowering child.

Potter only stood, motionless, as spell light rose to fall upon him. Movement, to the side, the long hunted Crouch Jr. raising his wand, more curses cast out.

Then, finally, the boy jumped back, and even as Hill saw the cast spells falter and splash against empty pavement, Crouch screamed in horror as the Dark Lord froze in place.

Potter had cast no spell that Hill could see. Crouch fell to the ground, howling, scratching at his hair, pulling it, eyes rolling in the back of his head as he thrashed.

The boy blinked those eerie glowing eyes, and the wizard who looked like the Dark Lord yelled out some garbled sound, shuddering, as Crouch's thrashing abruptly stopped, the wizard going still on the ground, face turned slightly, blank eyes staring dead across the black road.

The Dark Lord fell to his knees, eyes sightless, as Potter looked at his kneeling form with clinical detachment, no pity or sorrow on his face, only mild curiosity. His blind eyes gleamed emerald, roving over the wizards robed form as if he could actually see him on his knees.

Then, the wizard fell forward to crunch with a broken sound upon the pavement, as Potter's firebird flapped its wings and opened its beak to take the offering.

Hill watched, feeling oddly distanced to the situation, something like shock at what he was seeing flowing through him, as Potter flicked his tall staff in an annoyed motion, and the dark magic changed from hungry fire to cool misty rain.

Hill, above it, only stared, numb. Potter turned in a circle, energy streaming off him, looking around like he was cataloguing the damage done, that odd light in his eyes that made Hill both fearful and longing to have it upon him, wandering wildly what might happen if he met Harry Potter's gaze when that light shown from them. _Would he die, too, screaming like the Death Eaters?_

Hill shivered, that foreign energy he now knew was Potter's touching him, and he began to reluctantly descend, keeping his distance at first from the boy who was now kneeling beside the face down wizard.

The boy's uncle called out his name; and Hill shuddered as the boy looked at the three muggles who stood far across the street.

But they didn't scream, or die. Only stared with fearful confusion.

Hill remembered, abruptly, that he had a job to do.

He landed, gruffly assuring the teenager that he would take care of the muggle law enforcement.

But he couldn't meet his eyes; couldn't forget the way Crouch had screamed like he was under the Cruciatus Curse, being flayed alive from the inside out. He felt the boy's eyes on him like a physical touch, fingers seeming to rove over his very heart and magic with a proprietary gaze.

"How will you explain this?" The boy asked absently, and Hill wet his lips and cleared his dry throat.

"Oh, standard obliviation spells mostly, not much explanation necessary. Perhaps a car explosion or something of the sort. A wreck, even."

And just like that, the touch was gone; the energy leaving him cold and oddly alone.

Against his better judgement, Hill glanced up; and found the boy's gaze as normal as it usually was, no sign of the gleaming eyes present, the scars framing his unfocused eyes pale lines on his skin from one side of his face to the other. The boy turned to lean against his staff and sighed, looking away from Hill in obvious dismissal.

Hill moved away stiffly towards the muggles, just as the Ministry finally arrived, too late to be of use for anything but damage control.

And still hearing Crouch's tortured screams, Hill raised his wand to begin obliviating.

* * *

><p>Harry stepped away from the idling cab, his uncle remaining inside, as he approached the Granger's house. He hesitated only a moment before ringing the doorbell.<p>

He was tired, and it was late. Past midnight, in fact, by the time a wrecker had been set up to tow his uncle's car and a cab had been called. Statements had been taken by confounded police, and Harry had had to deal with the looks cast at him from the aurors nearby.

It hadn't escaped his notice, either, that he had not been followed away from the scene by guards.

And as much as he had wanted to simply go home and fall into bed to sleep off the growing magical exhaustion, he knew Hermione received the morning paper, and had no doubt at all that the Daily Prophet would rush through some sort of special edition of the nights events. She would worry first, and be angry later, that he hadn't assured her he was safe.

"Harry?" Mr. Granger's confused voice came from the doorway, the man's dark hue a slow, tired swirl of color.

"I need to speak to Hermione." Harry said quietly.

"It's late, son. She's in bed…"

"John?" Mrs. Granger's color peeked around her husband. "_Harry? _What's going on? Something smells horrid."

Harry was well aware that the scent of burned inferi clung to him like macabre perfume. He grimaced.

"I just need to talk to Hermione for a minute before I go home. There was an… incident, tonight. It will be in the papers, and I didn't want her to worry. I'd have called, but your house was on the way."

And he really could use a hug at that moment, and Hermione's unique scent to cover up the stink of dark magic and fire. Her soft hair on his face, her warm hands around him, her color blocking out the chaotic light of the world. A part of him was worried about what she might think of what he had done; a greater part just wanted comfort because of it.

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Granger moved away with swift efficiency, and Harry stepped inside at Mr. Grangers beckoning motion.

He sat on the wide couch, resting his head against his staff where he propped it beside him. He had cast a cleaning charm on himself, removing the soot, but scents were much more difficult to get rid of. He dearly hoped he wasn't going to set Mrs. Granger into a cleaning frenzy.

"_Harry?" _Hermione's voice was worried, her steps clattering down the stairs from her bedroom in a rushed fury.

He Looked at her and her hue became detailed and green, her riotous hair tumbling over her shoulders, a robe hastily tied around her, bare legs swiftly approaching.

And despite everything that had happened that night, he no longer just wanted a hug. He wanted to run his hands over those legs and…

"_Harry? _What _happened?_"

He blinked and let his Look fade away with a shake of his head, Hermione falling into the seat beside him.

And with a deep breath, he started at the beginning in his uncle's car.

* * *

><p>Jane Granger shivered when she saw the teenager's eyes glow.<p>

"My goodness, I'll never get used to that." She mumbled to John, who leaned against the door jam beside her, watching as their daughter rushed to sit beside Harry. "It's just so unnatural."

It didn't help that only one solitary lamp was on in the living room; the darkness only made the glow more eerie.

John grunted assent, and Jane continued, her hands beginning to restlessly pluck at her pajama shirt's hem.

"Should I make cocoa, you think? How long will Harry be staying? I saw a hackney outside. It's going to be a dreadful fee if he's left waiting out there for very long. Was Vernon inside? Should we invite him in? Look at the poor boy. I was thinking we ought to just let Harry sleep on the couch tonight, though a shower is certainly in order first. If it's going to take very long for him to tell his story. It's past midnight_ already!_ Dreadfully late. We all ought to be in bed at this hour. Do you think Harry is alright? Besides that _smell?_"

Her husband was frowning at the two on the couch, and Jane looked over to see Hermione practically crawling into the young man's lap, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. If the boy didn't look so distraught, she would have had to protest.

For appearance's sake, of course. Jane herself had done far more than crawl into boy's laps when she was seventeen. _Though_, not in her parent's living room. In _front_ of them.

John cleared his throat, and Hermione's head whipped around with a stubborn flash of brown eyes. Jane knew that look; she saw it often enough in the mirror. Her daughter wasn't going to budge.

John grumbled and turned away, sidestepping Hiss as the cat came to investigate the commotion.

"I'll let Vernon know the boy's staying the night. _On the couch._"

He stomped off, and Jane repressed a smile. Her poor John, refusing to see that his little girl was all grown up.

"Who wants some hot cocoa?" She called out cheerfully to the couple on the couch.

* * *

><p>Hermione stood beside the sofa in the early morning light, watching as Harry slept, her mother's plush comforter thrown over his torso, his bare feet hanging over one arm rest in a position that looking anything but comfortable. Despite it, he slept so soundly she doubted she could wake him with an airhorn.<p>

_She_ hadn't slept well, herself. Thinking on Harry's words, the things he had done. His voice as he whispered the realization that finally sunk in as she held him in her arms.

_I didn't just kill them, Hermione. I looked at them and I__** shredded their souls**__. _

Worse still was how very easy it all had seemed when he told it. A single thought, and a person was worse than dead.

But that was both the horror and the wonder in magic. With only a thought and a desire, nearly anything was possible.

She did so wish he had found another way though. Something that wouldn't keep her up at night, and wouldn't put that look in his eyes. That realization that he was easily capable of something evil, and he had to be on his guard or else he might become something worse than a dark lord with a pure blood vendetta.

"_Hermione."_ Her mom whispered from the kitchen. "_It's here."_

She turned and tiptoed out of the living room, looking at the large white owl that preened on the windowsill under her mum's attention.

In its claws was a rolled up newspaper.

"Time to see what rubbish the wizards will spin about it all." Hermione muttered, claiming the paper, as her mother cooed and offered treats to the smug bird.

She only had to look at the headline to know.

* * *

><p>"Hill said his eyes <em>glowed<em>..." Rufus heard one auror whisper to another in the long hallway. "...and we saw burned bodies _everywhere_…"

"Hill's seriously spooked. When we got there, Crouch was just dead on the ground, like he'd been hit with a Killing Curse!" Another added. "Though Hill claims he didn't see one cast. And this Voldemort look-alike was face-first on the ground, dead too, same thing. 'Course, it was probably just another crazy Death Eater who'd transfigured himself or somewhat. Maybe we've got 'em all now."

"You mean, _Lord Potter's_ got them all." The third snidely said, and the first two aurors nodded their heads in slow agreement.

Rufus turned away, ducking back into his office, closing the door with a loud slam.

He limped to his chair and let himself settle into it, one leg stretched before him to rest while he looked at the embellished newspaper on his desk.

_**Lord Potter, the Blind Sorcerer, attacked in Muggle London! Destroys Death Eaters With Only A Look!**_

Below the headline, a bare summary of events were displayed, all the facts that the media had been able to garner overnight. The muggle authorities, obliviated; the muggle press, satisfied with a yarn about exploding cars and gang warfare. Aurors, responding to an attack on Potter, arriving at a scene of burned inferi and dead wizards, all of which bore the Dark Mark except for the leader, whose body was nearly identical to the Lord Voldemort who had reigned before he was temporarily defeated by an infant Harry Potter.

And best of all, for the eager wizarding public, that Potter himself, the now widely dubbed Blind Sorcerer, had been responsible for it all.

Someone, somehow, had gotten a picture of the teenager as he stood beside his uncle in muggle clothes, black trousers and a grey long-sleeved shirt, the tall staff held in one hand as he looked out over at the aurors with visible power in his gaze. Power that you could see even in a black-and-white moving picture in a crinkled newspaper.

And Hill, blast the fool, had given an interview to the eager reporters without consulting himself or the Head Auror first, spouting shakily about the teenager's glowing eyes and power. Claiming the boy had merely looked at the dark wizards and killed them. He would be reprimanded; but the damage had already been done. Not only was the public aware that their elected savior had used dark magic in the form of fiendfyre, which the reporters had loved to report took the form of a phoenix, perhaps the greatest symbol of Light magic that there was; but they now all probably believed that the boy could kill with only a glance. The public would either be awed to the point of worship, or fearful to the point of hiding their children if he approached.

Rufus figured if there was one thing good that came out of it all, it was that no longer was the public afraid of saying Lord Voldemort's name; after all, the infamous dark wizard had apparently been killed three times over now, and any remaining Death Eaters who were not slain or executed now rested in the renovated Azkaban Prison.

There was nothing left to fear of dark wizards for an irrational public that now trusted with all their hearts in a teenager that would save them. A _blind_ teenager, one with powers Rufus was not sure he believed in; and even if it was true, as the wizarding sheep doubtless would think, would mean Harry Potter was a risk far greater than any self-proclaimed dark lord.

He would have to talk to him; have to decide for himself what to believe, what measures to take.

His own job within the Ministry was nearly complete, after all; an auror force that had never looked as good, never been trained as well. A Wizengamot no longer bound by pureblood agendas, nearly half of their ranks made up of muggleborns and half bloods. All ready to find peace and guard it fiercely.

The tide was beginning to turn; and Rufus Scrimgeour knew soon he too would be a relic of the past.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore heard the news from Kingsley; and he did not for a minute think that the body killed by Harry Potter was anything other than Tom Riddle himself. The force that Severus had been spying on for months, destroyed, in one ill-fated attempt on a boy's life, though the Daily Prophet obviously exaggerated grossly about the boy's power and the number of inferi.<p>

It was the_ prophecy_, once again, striking true to its word.

And one less horcrux to worry about.

* * *

><p>Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley left the Headmaster's office for the sixth time during their sixth year, exchanging disappointed looks as they descended the spiraling staircase.<p>

Both had been ecstatic to be given some exciting task to do that year; their fifth year at Hogwarts had been so ordinary and dull that they regretted complaining so bitterly of the events that preceded it.

At least then they hadn't been bored.

Ron scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

"_Nothing. _We've even found two hidden rooms and one passageway not on the Map, and still no stupid crown. I'm beginning to think the thing doesn't exist."

Neville was far past _beginning_ to think it; from the very beginning he had been doubtful that Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem was anywhere near Hogwarts, even though her daughters ghost had reluctantly described the object to them personally. Surely someone would have found it by now.

"And now term is almost over." Ron continued. "I'm about to roam the grounds as a wolf just to see if that might give me new perspective. The Moon rises in just a few days; worth a shot."

Neville scoffed and shoved Ron from the side, rolling his eyes.

"You know good and well the Ministry would yank your enrollment here if they ever caught wind that you left the warded room, Wolfsbane or no. And there's students here who would delight in reporting us."

Ron's brown eyes glinted with gold in response; but he said nothing.

Neville looked down at his shoes.

"Well, maybe not. I guess things are different now."

Different was one way of putting it. Enrollment at Hogwarts had dropped by nearly a fourth after the Tournament; and their numbers had already been lowered before that with the events of their second and third years. What remained now of Slytherin were those from neutral families, and the odd group of half-bloods that had been sorted into the pureblood House, a development they had found to be most uncomfortable. The only rival they had once had, Malfoy, had gone from a loud, bold and sarcastic nuisance to a silent, wickedly sarcastic loner.

In their fifth year, Hogwarts had been oddly silent; the Headmaster often absent on tasks of his own, McGonagall taking over the school with a firm hand. There were less pranks, less jokes. Everyone remembered classmates gone or dead, every House losing at least one student during the Tournament Tragedy.

Sixth year had been slightly different; with a year between them and the uproar of times past, new students coming in, new hope, the world had seemed a little brighter. And with something to do, to focus on, Ron and Neville had spent most of their free time scouring the castle with Dean and Seamus for any hint of the ancient artifact that the Headmaster claimed was central to Hogwarts' safety, cursed somehow by dark wizards and hidden within the school.

And now, rumors that Headmaster Dumbledore was to retire; and not entirely of his own choosing. Neither Ministry or School Board was happy with the events that had happened at Hogwarts under his watch; claims that the elderly wizard was failing were abundant, not helped by the way the wizard dressed and the odd things he said at times.

They desperately wanted to find the Diadem; to give their mentor something back for all they had been given.

"I'm hungry." Ron abruptly said with a hint of a growl in his voice.

"You always are, especially this time of the month." Neville sighed, but turned down the corridor that led to the kitchens.

The house-elves were always glad to provide food for any hungry witch, wizard, or werewolf.

* * *

><p>It was either extraordinary luck, or fate, depending on who told the story. Ron, eating his second plate of nearly raw steak, happened to roll his eyes at Neville's worried glances over the map where it lay unfolded on one of the kitchen tables.<p>

Neville, catching the Gryffindor's sarcastic gesture, lost his famous patience.

"Fine! You think it's so impossible to find some bloody hidden chamber or wardrobe or, or… crown holder! Then maybe I'll just let you out next full moon and get caught by the aurors trying to find the stupid mythical thing!"

Ron, with another eye roll, gestured for another plate from the wide-eyed house-elves.

Neville jumped to his feet, slamming one fist down on the map, anger and annoyance whirling within him.

"It's so ridiculous!" He said to the room at large, hearing the sounds of cooking still at his shout. "If Dumbledore couldn't find it, the_ Headmaster of Hogwarts_, how on earth are we supposed to!?"

"Sir, Mr. Longbottom, sir?" Came a tentative query from the side.

Neville turned with narrowed eyes, about to deny what was no doubt a plate of biscuits or dessert shoved towards him to quell his temper; house-elves thought food solved everything.

"Pickly knows where a room of hidden things is. Anything hidden at all goes there. Lost socks and broken furniture and knick knacks and books and…"

"_Where?"_ Neville broke in urgently, stepping forward to grab the scrawny thing's shoulders.

At the table, Ron sniffed, looking over at the waiting plate of meat with a mournful glance.

"Guess I won't be needing that third plate."

* * *

><p>When the house-elf told them how to enter the room, Neville and Ron found it was not on the map; a blank wall where no room should possibly be, a door where none existed.<p>

They only stepped inside for a moment, watching their own dots disappear off the map, seeing endless rows of items in every direction.

If anything was hidden at Hogwarts, it would most certainly be somewhere in the mountains of trash.

With triumphant grins, they left to report their success.

* * *

><p>Albus spent three hours combing through the Room of Hidden Things, marveling at yet another secret Hogwarts had hidden from him.<p>

Misplaced textbooks; the detritus of students long gone, wands, parchment, clothing. Objects of power, crystal balls and rusty metal bowls, jewels that gleamed with inner light. Broken and unbroken furniture, cursed and mundane decorations.

And on one shelf, inside a leather box, rested an ancient crown, its metal gleam disturbed with rust, the jewels sparkle clouded with dust.

An object of great Light; enchanted to increase memory and the speed of thought, traits that were often conflated with wisdom, which Rowena Ravenclaw treasured above all other things. It was meant to be used as a guiding force; but great intelligence is not always used properly.

When Albus gently touched the Diadem, he felt the chaotic power within, a wail howling in his ears as Light and Dark battled fiercely for possession of the object. The horcrux was a poison, a darkness intolerable and unwanted.

He snapped the box shut.

If only he could _save_ the precious artifact; it would be a tool future headmasters and mistresses would find most useful when making the difficult decisions within Hogwarts.

But a horcrux could only be destroyed with the complete and final destruction of its bound object.

Albus's face set in haggard lines, and with slow ponderous steps, he left the Room and made his way from the grounds to lay another soul to rest.

Only two more.

_Two, Merlin help us, and no more._

* * *

><p>Hermione read the request from the Minister out loud, as Harry sat in his bedroom at the Dursley house, carefully beginning the process of packing his things.<p>

The letter had come by owl, while Hermione was lecturing him on moving out of his aunt and uncle's house to go 'live with a crotchety overworked house-elf.'

His uncle, as Harry had predicted, thought it a swell idea. The muggle man was beyond disturbed by the sights he saw two nights previous; he had even found reasons to avoid taking Harry to the college campus himself.

Harry knew he would come around; the man's fear would pass, eased by time and the man's mind convincing him it had not been as bad as the first impression gave him. His aunt, of course, insisted Harry reconsider his request to relocate.

But Harry was turning seventeen in only a few months, and he craved being closer to his laboratory and the Black library, where he could experiment in peace and study at his leisure. Aunt Petunia, when she saw he was serious and would not be put off, finally agreed, though she insisted he take a full week to pack and think it over.

She still hoped to talk him out of it. Dudley, after all, still had another year before he graduated, just as Hermione did. Children, in her opinion, belonged at home where they could be kept out of trouble.

Especially children like Harry, who she still saw as slightly disabled, powerful magic or not.

"...request your presence at your earliest convenience, as soon as possible." Hermione's light pulsed in agitation. "Why do they bother saying _at your earliest convenience_, when this is pretty much a demand that you come be interrogated by the aurors?" She spat in his direction. "After two days, I hoped they were letting it go, illegal magic or not. Its a clear case of self defense, and there it no one to challenge you on it. One auror was there the whole time, after all. His report was good enough."

_Too good, rather,_ Harry thought.

"I'm sure they just want to close the case with due diligence, that's all. I can go tomorrow morning."

Hermione sighed.

"I'll be in class. Not that I was invited, but… if you want company, I don't mind skipping one morning. I've gone over my exam preparation three times already, and it's all simple enough, once you do the proper reading. Very little extrapolation, mostly memorizing bare facts."

She sounded very put-off about that fact. Harry smiled.

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

Hermione drew closer, one warm hand touching his own, before she slid down to sit on the bed beside him.

Her voice, when she spoke, was low with worry.

"What will you tell them about... the Look?"

Harry ran one hand through her hair, amazed as always with how soft the blue curls were. How hair gleamed with deep light but was still, no life in it. Dead strands of genetic material, but beautiful.

"The best lie is the truth. What Hill described was merely a way I'm developing to see shapes and objects better, using an extension of my own magic to see details. It's not perfect, and can not be used for extensive amounts of time. An unfortunate side effect is that my eyes give off tangible light, a concentration of my magic focused through the optical lens, which is more visible at night than during the day. I do not have to acknowledge the claims that I have "the evil eye" or some such nonsense. The Death Eaters all fell to wandless, wordless magic, not my Look. The truth."

She sighed, a warm breath against his shoulder.

"Barely. I don't suppose the Minister will push the matter anyway. You did them a public service, and the papers would never let them forget it if they tried to put you on trial. Still, I don't like how they're making you out to be some… well,_ superhero_. Like you're going to solve all their problems now because you managed to off some wizarding terrorists. Four separate articles stated you should officially take up your seat on the Wizengamot."

"Two seats, actually." Harry said with a frown. "And though I suppose I qualify at seventeen I doubt anyone would seriously want a teenager helping to run the government, no matter how qualified. It's madness."

Hermione huffed. "It's the _wizarding world_, and it_ is_ mad. A lot of the time anyway. And daft. At least the Minister seems sensible, but he's the one summoning you to his office like a recalcitrant school boy."

"No, _politely _summoning me, and more like I was responsible for the deaths of six men, three of which I intentionally killed, and I'm too politically powerful for more than a slap on the wrist." Harry returned.

Hermione leaned into him.

"I'm trying to feel better about this, and you're not helping."

Harry wrapped his arm around her and squeezed softly.

"I'm sorry. Everything will be fine, and for all the reasons you stated. This is just a formality."

She lay there a moment, just breathing, and he saw her light pulse with every breath she took, a nexus of light swarming from head to toe, so familiar and steady.

Then, Hermione pulled away with a toss of her head, strands of light flying as she stood.

"Well, that's that. Does this one stay or go?"

She held up a green mass of light.

Harry Looked at it, ignoring the slight shiver that he saw flow through her in response.

"It stays."

* * *

><p>The girl noticed him first; she had seen his face in the papers more than once, the iconic scars that tarnished the natural symmetry of his face.<p>

She rather thought it made him more handsome; she was sure she would marry him one day._ He was a hero!_ Just like the knights in her fairytailes, fighting evil men from the back of a dragon.

As she stood in the Atrium, she tugged sharply on her mum's hand, and was ignored, as usual.

With wide eyes, she watched the cloaked man pass her by, and smiled brightly up at his face.

When he did not so much as blink in response, she reminded herself that he was _blind_.

But that didn't mean he wasn't still _perfect._

* * *

><p>In the lift, the two wizards noticed whom they shared space with, and quickly got off on the next level, both amazed and afraid of the Blind Sorcerer.<p>

On Level Four, the witch about to step inside paused; her breath stalling in her throat as she looked into green eyes. She froze; and the doors slid closed before she thought to enter, her legs trembling in fear.

On Level Two, an auror stomped inside, casting only one quick glance into Harry Potter's face. In a low tone, he whispered a quick congratulations on the teenager's swift and final action days before.

When the lift reached level one, the black-haired boy smiled at the auror in thanks, and ignored the way the man's light pulsed with adrenaline, as ready for battle as any wizard faced with a charging gryffon.

* * *

><p>Harry stepped on the tangled pale green light of plush carpet that covered the entire floor of Level One of the Ministry of Magic, home to the Minister and his Staff's offices.<p>

He approached the desk of a bright lime green secretary, their color bubbling with emotion.

"Can I help…" The witch's excited tone halted awkwardly.

She cleared her throat, and he heard the distinct tap of a pen on wood.

"_...you?"_

"The Minister asked to speak with me." Harry said, and heard her aggressively rearranging papers on her desk, lines of brown light fluttering.

"O-Oh, of course. I was told... that is, I _thought _you'd owl… _oh_, but of_ course,_ that doesn't _matter! _You are welcome, _always_ welcome. Um, _I'll_… I'll just _check_…"

Her light sprang from a chair, her voice fading away as she moved down the hallway, decidedly less bubbly than before.

Perhaps he had underestimated the power of the Daily Prophet. He had been skeptical when Hermione insisted people would believe anything it said. He hadn't been expecting quite the level of avoidance and downright fear he was encountering.

_But, maybe with time…_

"Right this way, Lord Potter." The lime green witch spoke from beside her desk as she returned, and Harry blinked.

_Lord?_

He owed Hermione an apology. It seemed even the Ministry employees were ready to fling a title upon him before he was old enough to take up his seats in the Wizengamot; though, admittedly, it was only a matter of months until he was officially _'Lord' _Potter whether he wanted the bloody seats or not.

The lime witch held open a wooden door; and closed it behind him with a soft, nearly inaudible snick, leaving him along in the Minister's office.

It was green; Green wooden floors, green paneled walls, ancient green furniture.

And seated behind the desk was the Minister, whose green-yellow hue contrasted perfectly with the golden layer of protective wards he sat within.

"Take a seat, Mr. Potter."

Rufus Scrimgeour said in a gravely voice, deep and strong.

Harry took one of the green chairs, settling on it, eyeing the golden wards speculatively.

Where they there just for him? Or were they a standard practice for political figures in the wizarding world?

"I'm glad you came so promptly. My aide was under the impression you might be reluctant to come here, considering the press and it's... exaggeration."

Here was one wizarding skeptic at least, a rare breed in the magical world.

"When the leader of part of your world asks for a conference, you comply unless you are an idiot or guilty of something."

The Minister choked out a laugh.

"You're frank. I like that." The man resettled in his chair, light shifting over light. "So I'll be frank as well. Auror Hill's interview was a mistake. Such details should not be given to the press, and most certainly not before they are confirmed by the administration to be fit to print. As it is, a firestorm is brewing around you and what the world thinks you can do. I need to confirm or deny these claims, and clarify certain actions Auror Hill said you took two nights ago."

Harry sat back in his chair and nodded.

"I'll be happy to answer any questions you have about that night."

The Minister made a noise in his throat; and Harry wished he could risk Looking to see what facial expression the man might hold.

"Are you in fact blind, Mr. Potter?"

Harry faced the man's chartreuse light without looking away.

"Conventionally. I have some form of mage sight, but it can be lacking."

"Auror Hill said your eyes glowed, and your movements that day and today show me it is not as lacking as you imply."

Harry did not blink at the rapid question. Standard interrogation technique; not giving the person a chance to think over their answers, and therefore, lie. "I'm testing a new version of magesight, and it often has the side effect of creating an optical illusion that my eyes glow in the dark. But it allows me to see more detail, if not true colors."

"You are aware fiendfyre is illegal." the Minister jumped subjects.

"Just as much as creating inferi, sir."

"Have you ever tested its use near Hogwarts' grounds during your time there?"

That question caught him by surprise; Harry paused a second before answering.

"I test everything I question, Minister."

"What did you question about fiendfyre? Why it is illegal?" His voice was snide. Harry lifted his chin.

"The fact that it is both uncontrollable, and can consume anything."

A brief pause; then the Minister shifted again in his chair.

"Auror Hill claimed you controlled fiendfyre to destroy the inferi. This implies a lot of practice."

The Minister was determined to achieve something; Harry wondered just what his aim was.

"I did not control it as much as aim it in the right direction. I do not yet know of a way to truly control it."

The truth; not _yet._

"You achieved a corporeal form, a phoenix. It was stated in several reports that the Dark Lord managed the same in the past, except with a serpent form."

"My staff's interpretation, not mine. With a sufficient amount of power fiendfyre takes on a semi-sentient life of its own, influenced by the caster. If given enough leeway, it will eventually consume the caster and continue to eat everything around, until the magic that fuels it is spent. That is why it's illegal."

"Just like the Killing Curse, Mr. Potter. Magic that kills, that can not be defended against. Evil, _dark _magic."

The Minster was pushing for something, again. Harry frowned.

"I have not seen or experienced the Killing Curse since I was an infant. I do not think that any magic is inherently evil, only tainted, broken, by the people who misuse it. Any magic has the potential to be deadly."

"How did you dispel the fiendfyre?" The Minister switched subjects again, smoothly.

Harry had the distinct, fervent wish that Hermione was with him. This was what he got for underestimating the tenacity of a Minister who had served as Head Auror during a war.

"Minister, are you more concerned that I used illegal magic or that I did so without dying?"

"I'm most concerned that you are directly and indirectly responsible for six deaths, and yet you sit here as if that fact does not bother you in the least."

His voice was dark; and Harry stiffened at the insinuation in it.

"They wanted me dead, so I defended myself, sir; and with the inferi, I could not be particular about how I did so. Fiendfyre can not be easily controlled, and I had multiple obstacles. I had to keep it focused around me, and not on the muggles crowding the street behind, or Hill up in the air, or the buildings beside me. The two Death Eaters it consumed were collateral damage from using it as a weapon. Any lesser flame spell would not have had the range or sentience to protect me from so many attacking inferi. I am not bothered that confirmed, wanted murderers died when they were trying to kill me, and would have went on to kill others, including my friends and family. I won't apologize for it."

The Minister's voice was soft when he replied.

"Not many people can kill, even when facing death themselves, not and remain so undisturbed by it. Hill claims you looked at Crouch, Jenson, and the unknown Death Eater and they, as he says, 'screamed and fell dead.' If that does not sound like dark magic, I do not know what does. I know you had the capability to capture them instead, just as you captured Voldemort and Pettigrew."

There was accusation there; and a measure of truth.

Harry didn't falter.

"I did what I thought best at the time, under pressure. The dark lord was powerful, and attacked in tandem with Crouch. Both would have been executed anyway. Both could have potentially escaped. Both were _trying to kill me_. Would you have done any differently?"

There was a moment of silence; then Scrimgeour's light flickered and shifted like candle flame in a breeze.

"I do not know. I only wish you hadn't done what you did, and in the manner you did; and most of all I wish that it hadn't become common knowledge."

Harry laughed; he couldn't help it.

"I wish I had not been attacked at all. All I've ever wanted is to be left _alone_, in _peace."_

The Minister snorted, raising a yellow-green hand to wave in dismissal.

"Then we will both be equally sorry; for I will have to deal with the press for the next few months, if not until I retire, and you will most definitely _not_ be left in peace. Not for a_ very _long time."

And Harry, remembering the people he had encountered on his way to the green office, had a sinking feeling that the Minister was very, very correct about_ that._

* * *

><p>For another hour, Harry sat in the Minister's office and listened to the former auror's barely veiled warnings about further use of dark magic; and managed to deftly sidestep answering too clearly just what he was capable of.<p>

When it came time to leave, Rufus Scrimgeour passed through his golden wards to shake his hand, the Ministers rough palms calloused from frequent wand work.

It meant something, that the wizard left his protective wards behind, meeting him without their protection in place. Was it some form of trust, respect? A gesture that he did not think him a threat?

"You're in a position now, Mr. Potter, to influence our world. Whether you deserve it or not will not change that fact. You will never simply be an anonymous wizard again, if you ever were."

The advice, spoken in a gruff tone, fell between them as Harry stepped away.

He nodded his head in response as he spoke. "Favor easily gained is just as easily lost, Minister. I don't trust it."

The older man walked behind his desk, carefully sinking into his chair, yellow-green light swirling behind golden wards once more.

"You might last after all, Mr. Potter, if you remember that fact."

And behind him, the door swung open as the nervous secretary reappeared to escort him away.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~*~Review Please!~*~<strong>_


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